"It will pave his way to hell one day, Rainsford," said the engineer, leaning across the table. "It will indeed! Why, it is a monument of injustice and dishonour. Do you know what that Sphinx rests on, Rainsford, do you know?"
For a moment the railroad agent thought his friend had lost his senses brooding over his discarded art, his spoiled life.
"Four huge prehistoric creatures," Rainsford read mildly.
Fairfax's lips trembled. "It rests on a man's heart and soul, on his flesh and blood, on his bleeding wounds, Rainsford. I worked in Cedersholm's studio, I slaved for him night and day for eighteen months. I spilled my youth and heart's blood there, I did indeed." His face working, he tapped his friend's arm with his hand. "I made the moulds for those beasts. I cast them in bronze, right there in his studio. Every inch of them is mine, Rainsford, mine. By ... you can't take it in, of course, you don't believe me, nobody would believe me, that's why I can do nothing, can't say anything, or I'd be arrested as a lunatic. But Cedersholm's fame in this instance is mine, and he has stolen it from me and shut me out like a whipped dog. He thinks I am poor and unbefriended, and he knows that I have no case. Why, he's a hound, Rainsford, the meanest hound on the face of the earth."
Rainsford soothed his friend, but Fairfax's voice was low with passion, no one could overhear its intense tone.
"Don't for a moment think I have lost my senses. If you don't believe me, give me a pencil and paper and I'll sketch you what I mean."
Rainsford was very much impressed and startled. "If what you say is true," he murmured.
And Fairfax, who had regained some of his control—he knew better than any one the futility of his miserable adventure—exclaimed—
"Oh, it's true enough; but there is nothing to do about it. Cedersholm knows that better than any one else."