There was indescribable pathos in the resignation with which he spoke. "It is inevitable," he repeated softly. Then he turned to go.
"Why don't you see Wynrod?" asked Good with sudden harshness.
The other man laughed mirthlessly. "He is the one person from whom I'd keep—this," he said shortly. "He—he—cares for me—now...."
Good's voice changed again, and grew soft. "Judge," he asked quietly, almost indifferently, "what caused it all?"
The old man's fine white head fell on his chest, and Good felt glad, for him, in his bitter shame, that it was dark.
"I had rather not speak of that," he said wearily. "What is done is done." He rose to go. Good waited until his hand was on the doorknob.
"Wait," he whispered chokingly. His voice was lifeless. "I was joking, you know. It's all right. It's all right," he repeated, as if the words were forced from him. "The story's dead."
"I don't understand...."
"The story's killed, I tell you. You can read to-morrow's Dispatch without a tremble."
"You mean...?" The old man was clutching at his collar as if it hurt him. "You mean...?"