Gradually he lessened his gait, absorbed in mental reconstructions of his parting with Elizabeth. The pet lion which, while affectionately licking the hand which caresses it, brings the blood, and at the taste reverts instantly to its normal savagery, is acted on by impulses much like those of Amidon. His thoughts were successions of moving pictures of the splendid girl whom he had held in his arms and kissed. He saw her sitting by the fire as he entered. His mind's eye dwelt on the image of the strong, full figure and the lovely head and wondrous eyes. He felt her lean against him as they stood by the table, and his arms fairly ached with the thrill of that parting embrace. His lips throbbed still with the half-ravished kisses, and he stopped with an insane impulse to return and repeat the tender robbery. Then, wondering at the turbulence of his thoughts, he walked on.
During this pause, he was dimly conscious that a person whom he had seen approaching had neared the point of meeting, and after a moment's halt, had passed on. As he resumed his walk, he heard rapid steps behind him, and was passed by a man who strongly resembled the passenger whom he had just met. This figure turned a corner a few rods in advance of Florian, and almost immediately reëmerged; having turned, apparently, for the purpose of encountering Amidon once more. This time, he walked up, and halted, facing Amidon.
"You'll be at the office in the morning, I suppose, Mr. Brassfield?" said the man.
"At the office?" said Amidon. "My office? Yes."
"Well," this new acquaintance proceeded, in tones which indicated a profound sense of personal injury, "you'd better come prepared to fill my place in the establishment as soon as possible."
This statement was followed by a pause of the sort usually adopted for the purpose of noting the effect of some startling utterance. Amidon was feeling in his pocket for Elizabeth's first-found letter, and the affairs of the Brassfield Oil Company had little interest for him. Yet he dimly realized that some one was resigning something.
"Let me see," said he musingly; "what—what do you do?"
The man gave a sort of hop, of the kind we have been taught to expect of the stag when the bullet strikes him.
"Do?" he snorted. "What do I do? What do I do? Do you mean to—— I'll tell what I do! I get together options for you and send you cipher telegrams about 'em, and don't get any answers! I attend stock-holders' meetings and get whipsawed by minorities because you are dead to the world off there in New York, or the Lord knows where, and don't furnish me with proxies! I stay here and try to protect your interests when you desert 'em, and you send some white-headed old reprobate of a Pinkerton man to shadow me for a week and try to pry into my work! And when you get home you never show up at the counting-room, though you know what a pickle things are in; and when I meet you on the street, I get cut dead: that's what I do! And I stand it, do I? Ha, ha, ha! Not if J. B. Stevens knows himself, I don't! Good night, Mr. Brassfield. Come round in the morning, and I'll show you what I do!"
After the speaker had rushed away, which he incontinently did following this outburst, Amidon's mind reverted to Elizabeth; and not until he had reached his room did his thoughts return to his encounter in the street; and then it was only to wonder if this man Stevens was really of any importance, and if a breach with him was a matter of any consequence.