Racked with sorrow, nothing guessing of the career that had brought the lawyer to this pass, Maitland slipped into a chair by the head of the couch and closed his hand over Bannerman's chubby, icy fingers.
"Poor, poor old chap!" he said brokenly. "How in Heaven—"
But at Bannerman's look the words died on his lips. The lawyer moved restlessly. "Don't pity me," he said in a low tone. "This is what I might have … expected, I suppose … man of Anisty's stamp … desperate character … it's all right, Dan, my just due…."
"I don't understand, of course," faltered Maitland.
Bannerman lay still a moment, then continued: "I know you don't. That's why I sent for you…. 'Member that night at the Primordial? When the deuce was it? I … can't think straight long at a time…. That night I dined with you and touched you up about the jewels? We had a bully salad, you know, and I spoke about the Graeme affair…."
"Yes, yes."
"Well … I've been up to that game for years. I'd find out where the plunder was, and … Anisty always divided square…. I used to advise him…. Of course you won't understand,—you've never wanted for a dollar in your life…."
Maitland said nothing. But his hand remained upon the dying man's.
"This would never have happened if … Anisty hadn't been impatient. He was hard to handle, sometimes. I wasn't sure, you know, about the jewels; I only said I thought they were at Greenfields. Then I undertook to find out from you, but he was restive, and without saying anything to me went down to Greenfields on his own hook—just to have a look around, he said. And so … so the fat was in the fire."
"Don't talk any more, Bannerman," Maitland tried to soothe him. "You'll pull through this all right, and—You need never have gone to such lengths. If you'd come to me—"'