The young man beat his fist upon his breast. “Have you the damnation cheek, Britt, to use me, the victim, to rehearse your lies on?”
“I'm giving you a little glimpse of the evidence. If the hint is of any use to you, you're welcome.”
“Britt, have you turned into a demon?” Vaniman demanded. He stared at the usurer with honest incredulity.
“I've had enough setbacks, in recent days, to craze 'most any man, I'll admit. But I'm keeping along in my usual course, doing the right thing as I see it.”
“Britt, I have never done you an injury. Are you going to ruin me because a good girl loves me?”
“I have too much respect for that young lady to allow her name to be dragged into a mess of this sort,” stated the amazing Britt. “And I think that she'll wake up after she has come to a realizing sense of what a narrow escape she has had.”
Vaniman stood there, his hands closing and unclosing, his palms itching to feel the contact of Britt's cheeks. There was venom in Britt's eyes. This outrageous baiting was satisfying the older man's rancor—the ugly grudge that clawed and tore his soul when he sat alone in his chamber and gazed on the girl's pictured beauty. Every night, after he puffed out his light, he muttered the same speech—it had become the talisman of his ponderings. “Whilst I'm staying alone here he'll be alone in a cell in state prison.”
Vaniman understood.
He turned on his heel and walked out of Britt's office.
In the street the young man met Prophet Elias, who was adventuring abroad under his big umbrella. Vaniman was in a mood to poke ruthless facts against his aches. “Prophet, you ought to know whether any of the folks in this town believe that I'm innocent. Are there any?”