“I think that’s good advice, speaking from the standpoint of prudence.”
“There’s no good in hashing the thing over with him; he’s off the job and I claim the credit and——”
“But from the standpoint of curiosity,” broke in Mern, relentlessly, “I’ll be almighty glad to have a talk with him. I’ll probably get some facts now. Shut up! If you have come back and told me all the truth I wouldn’t be taking a chance with this man. You’re to blame! Remember that another time. Beat it!” He jabbed his thumb in the direction of a door which enabled clients to leave without going back through the main office.
“A man named Latisan,” reported the door boy.
“Tell him to come in.”
Crowley turned the knob of the catch lock and dodged out into the corridor.
Mern stood up to receive the caller.
He was not inspired by politeness. He was putting himself in an attitude of defense and was depending on the brawn of a man who had been a tough proposition when he swung his police club on a New York beat. He even moved a chair which might get underfoot in a rough-and-tumble. But his muscles relaxed when he looked at the man who entered.
Latisan was deprecatory, if his manners were revealing his feelings. He was apologetic in his mien before he spoke; he gave Mern the impression of a man whose spirit was broken and whose estimate of himself had gone far toward condemnation. And Mern read aright! The bitter dregs of days and nights of doleful meditation were in Latisan—the memory of aimless venturings into this or that corner where he could hide away, the latest memory of the stale little room in a cheap New York hotel persisting most vividly in his shamed thoughts because he had penned himself there day after day, trying to make up his mind to do this or that—and, especially at the nadir of what he felt was his utter degradation, had he dwelt on the plan of ending it all, and from time to time had turned on a gas jet and sniffed at the evil fumes, wondering of what sort would be death by that means. To think that he would descend to that depth of cowardice! Nevertheless, he was not especially surprised by this weakness, even while he hated himself for entertaining such a base resolve. One after the other, right and left, the blows in his business affairs had crashed down on him. He understood those attacks, and he was still able to fight on. But the enemy that had ambuscaded him behind the guise of the first honest love of his experience had killed faith and pride and every tender emotion that enables a man to fight the ordinary battles of life.
Therefore, he ventured into the presence of Mern with down-hunched shoulders under the sagging folds of a ready-made coat, bought from the pile in an up-country village.