“No, no,” said Granter grimly; “that won’t do. It couldn’t have been sudden. You calculated—you concocted this. Blackmail is sheer filthy cold-blooded blackguardism. You don’t care two straws whom you hurt, whose lives you wreck, what faiths you destroy.” And he put his hand on the receiver.
The man squirmed.
“Steady on, guv’nor! I’ve gotta find food. I’ve gotta find clothes. I can’t live on air. I can’t go naked.”
Granter stood motionless, while the man’s voice continued to travel to him across the cosy room.
“Give us a chawnce, guv’nor! Ah! give us a chawnce! You can’t understand my temptations. Don’t have the police to me. I won’t do this again—give you me word—so ’elp me! I’ve got it in the neck. Let me go, guv’nor!”
In Granter, motionless as the flats he lived in, a heavy struggle was in progress—not between duty and pity, but between revengeful anger and a sort of horror at using the strength of prosperity against so broken a wretch.
“Let me go, mister!” came the hoarse voice again. “Be a sport!”
Granter dropped the receiver and unlocked the door.
“All right; you can go.”
The man crossed swiftly.