“A hint to collect them at some distant bank, I reckon. Perhaps Harkness doesn’t want the matter known. What is that—a note?”
“Yes. It was with the cheques.”
It was in the “Stephenson” handwriting, but there was no signature. It said:
“I am a disappointed man. Your honesty is beyond the reach of temptation. I had a different idea about it, but I wronged you in that, and I beg pardon, and do it sincerely. I honour you—and that is sincere too. This town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment. Dear sir, I made a square bet with myself that there were nineteen debauchable men in your self-righteous community. I have lost. Take the whole pot, you are entitled to it.”
Richards drew a deep sigh, and said:
“It seems written with fire—it burns so. Mary—I am miserable again.”
“I, too. Ah, dear, I wish—”
“To think, Mary—he BELIEVES in me.”
“Oh, don’t, Edward—I can’t bear it.”
“If those beautiful words were deserved, Mary—and God knows I believed I deserved them once—I think I could give the forty thousand dollars for them. And I would put that paper away, as representing more than gold and jewels, and keep it always. But now—We could not live in the shadow of its accusing presence, Mary.”