"You mean that?" he demanded. "Do I understand you correctly? You can't mean" — he was almost whispering — "you can't mean — but you may be right—"
With an abrupt motion, Roland Delmar hung up the telephone. Ferret, watching the old banker's profile, was astonished by the change and surge of emotions that passed over it. He wondered what happened. One moment, Delmar seemed fuming and defiant — another, he became pitiful in expression. Ferret could not understand.
It was in one of his moments of hopelessness that Delmar walked to his desk, opened a drawer, and removed a revolver. He stood dazed as he held the weapon in his hand. The banker stared into the muzzle, and made a gesture as though to raise the gun to his head. Then, with a fierce ejaculation, he brought the revolver down upon the desk. Muttering to himself, he strode about the room like a warrior. Ferret still wondered.
A new mood seized Delmar. He became calm and decided. He sat down at the desk and picked up pen and paper. Ignoring the revolver, he began to write.
Ferret edged away toward Butcher. He whispered the news to the big man.
"Call Judge," he said. "Tell him just what I have told you — everything that Delmar has done since he called. I'll keep watch."
Ferret went back to the window. Delmar was writing slowly, but steadily. He finished a small sheet of paper, and laid it aside, there was a rap at the door. Carefully, Delmar laid several sheets of paper over the revolver.
"Come in," he said.
A girl entered the room. Ferret recognized her as Martha Delmar, the daughter of the old bank president. Ferret had often seen her in Middletown. Tall, trim, and attractive, the girl bore a marked resemblance to her widowed father.
When she entered the room, Martha was wearing a coat and hat. Ferret dropped away from the window, and crouched in the darkness, listening.