“You wait!” he ordered in the tone of a master. “I am not yet done.”
“What's the use?” said Albritton; but he faced about, humbled and crushed. “There ain't anything you could say or do that would make me feel any worse.”
“Come back!” bade Felsburg; and, like a man whipped, the other came back to the doorway.
“You're even with me, I tell you,” he said from the threshold. “What's the use of piling it on?”
Mr. Felsburg did not answer in words. He reached behind him to his desk, wadded up something in his fingers, and, once more rising, he advanced, with his figure distended, on Albritton. Albritton flinched, then straightened himself.
“Hit me if you want to,” he said brokenly. “I won't hit back if you do. I deserve it.”
“Yes, I will hit you,” said Felsburg. “With this I will hit you.”
Into Albritton's right hand he thrust a crumpled slip of paper. At the wadded paper Albritton stared numbly.
“I don't know what you are driving at,” he said; “but, if this is a notice of foreclosure, I don't need any notice.”
“Look at it—close,” bade Felsburg.