Burke answered with a fine feeling of generosity.
“Sure, you can, Joe! I'll send you up to the Gallery right now.”
“Immense!” Garson cried, boisterously. He moved toward Dick Gilder, walking with a faint suggestion of swagger to cover the nervous tremor that had seized him.
“So long, young fellow!” he exclaimed, and held out his hand. “You've been on the square, and I guess you always will be.”
Dick had no scruple in clasping that extended hand very warmly in his own. He had no feeling of repulsion against this man who had committed a murder in his presence. Though he did not quite understand the other's heart, his instinct as a lover taught him much, so that he pitied profoundly—and respected, too.
“We'll do what we can for you,” he said, simply.
“That's all right,” Garson replied, with such carelessness of manner as he could contrive. Then, at last, he turned to Mary. This parting must be bitter, and he braced himself with all the vigors of his will to combat the weakness that leaped from his soul.
As he came near, the girl could hold herself in leash no longer. She threw herself on his breast. Her arms wreathed about his neck. Great sobs racked her.
“Oh, Joe, Joe!” The gasping cry was of utter despair.
Garson's trembling hand patted the girl's shoulder very softly, a caress of infinite tenderness.