Gordon Makimmon’s gaze concentrated on the storekeeper. “You’re almost an old man,” he said, in a slow, unnatural voice; “you have been robbing men and women of their homes for a great many years, and you are still alive. It’s surprising that some one has not killed you.”
“I have been shot at,” Valentine Simmons replied; “behind my back. The men who fail are like that as a rule.”
“I’m not like that,” Gordon informed him; “it’s pretty well known that I stand square in front of the man I’m after. Don’t you think, this time, you have made a little mistake? Hadn’t I better give you that fifty, and something more later?”
Valentine Simmons rose from his chair and turned, facing Gordon. His muslin bow had slipped awry on the polished, immaculate bosom of his shirt, and it gave him a slightly ridiculous, birdlike expression. He gazed coldly, with his thin lips firm and hands still, into the other’s threatening, virulent countenance. “Two hundred and fifty dollars,” he insisted.
The thought of Clare, betrayed, persisted in Gordon’s mind, battling with his surging temper, his unreasoning resentment. Valentine Simmons stood upright, still, against the lamplight. It was plain that he was not to be intimidated. An overwhelming wave of misery, a dim realization of the disastrous possibilities of his folly, inundated Gordon, drowning all other considerations. He turned, and walked abruptly from the office into the store. There the clerk placed on the counter the bottle, filled and wrapped. In a petty gust of rage, like a jet of steam escaping from a defective boiler, he swept the bottle to the floor, where he ground the splintering fragments of glass, the torn and stained paper, into an untidy blot.
VIII
Outside, the village, the Greenstream Valley, was folded in still, velvety dark. He crossed the street, and sat on one of the iron benches placed under the trees on the Courthouse lawn. He could see a dull, reddish light shining through the dusty window of the Bugle office. Shining like that, through his egotistical pride, the facts of his failure and impotence tormented him. It hurt him the more that he had been, simply, diddled, no better than a child in Simmons’ astute, practised hands. The latter’s rascality was patent, but Simmons could not have been successful unabetted by his own blind negligence. The catastrophe that had overtaken him rankled in his most vulnerable spot—his self-esteem.
He suffered inarticulately, an indistinguishable shape in the soft, summer gloom; about his feet, in the lush grass, the greenish-gold sparks of the fireflies quivered; above the deep rift of the valley the stars were like polished silver coins.