“Then he’s served two years and—let’s see—two years and three months.”
Mr. Hertzog pushed the electric button in his desk. “Get me the Revised Statutes covering Sing Sing regulations,” he said to the boy who answered the summons. The book was brought and Mr. Hertzog began studying its pages, his head resting on his hands and his elbows on the desk. For five minutes—ten minutes, there was silence.
“Don’t let’s take up this thing, Hertzog—I think—I think he’ll win.” Mr. Constable’s voice was almost a whisper.
But Hertzog, engrossed in the volume before him, did not hear. Mr. Constable glanced at the stern Hebraic face, flushed and changed his remark to a question.
“Do you think he’ll win?”
The junior partner started up nervously.
“How the devil can I tell!” he burst out angrily. “What’s the use of sitting there parroting ‘Do-you-think-he-can-win? Do-you-think-he-can-win?’ He’s got a damned good case on the merits. There’s something in the Code that may fix him, but I don’t count on it. Don’t ask such idiotic questions. Of course I think he can win, but I also think he mustn’t. If you want my opinion”—Mr. Hertzog swung himself about and cast a searching glance at the shrivelled, mean little figure crushed into the leather easy-chair beside him. “If you want my real opinion, Constable,” he repeated, “I think we’ve got to win. Haven’t we?”
For a moment Mr. Constable stared silently at his partner. Then shaking his head he mumbled a word or two, stopped, put his hand to his throat, began again, stammered a disjointed sentence and suddenly poured forth a torrent of confused and incoherent words that thickened into a clotted gurgle and freed itself in a sputter swelling to peal upon peal of hideous, shattering, mirthless laughter—laughter which forced the man to his feet and rocked him with its spasms.
Hertzog leaped toward the door and fastened it. The clerks must not hear the horror of this. Then he darted to the window, but by the time he had closed it the laughter had died out, and Constable was quivering upon the floor, the blood gushing from his mouth.