"Oh, I see!" Bivens's mouth quivered with the slightest sneer. "Perhaps it was lost in transit!"
The sneer was lost on the doctor. He was too intent on his purpose.
"I know. It was a mistake. I see it now, and I'm perfectly willing to pay for that mistake by accepting even half of your last proposition."
Bivens laughed cynically.
"This might be serious, Woodman, if it wasn't funny. But you had as well know, once and for all, that I owe you nothing. Your suit has been lost. Your appeal has been forfeited. My answer is brief but to the point—not one cent—my generosity is for my friends and followers, not my enemies."
"But we are not enemies, personally," the doctor explained, good-naturedly. "I have put all bitterness out of my heart and come to-night to ask that bygones be bygones. You know the history of our relations and of my business. I need not repeat it. And you know that in God's great book of accounts you are my debtor."
Bivens's eyes danced with anger, and his words had the ring of cold steel.
"I owe you nothing."
In every accent of the financier's voice the man before him felt the deadly merciless hatred whose fires had been smouldering for years.
For a moment he was helpless under the spell of his fierce gaze. He began to feel dimly something of the little man's powerful personality, the power that had crushed his enemies.