Yes!
He was not mistaken—it was the very page, and a deep pencil-mark accentuated the most damning paragraph. He straightened himself with a sickening feeling of shame, and drew back, trying to steady himself.
At that moment he heard a step outside in the hall, and Overton entered, shut the door behind him, and stood looking at Faunce.
XXIII
It seemed an interminable moment to Faunce that they stood thus, looking at each other. He had time to note the terrible change and waste in Overton’s face—the face that had haunted him so long with the veil of frozen mist upon it, fixed and unconscious in its awful tranquillity. Now that he saw it alive and hollowed with suffering, it gave him a strange feeling—or, rather, a confusion of feelings, in which relief was for the moment uppermost. However he had failed, however he had played the craven, the man lived, he had no death on his soul!
But his feeling of relief was succeeded by swift and overwhelming humiliation, which increased when Overton amazed him by advancing calmly across the room and holding out a hand.
“Well, Faunce, I’m glad you came—although I suppose you had very little wish to come!”
Faunce colored deeply, his hand falling away from Overton’s with a growing feeling of shame.
“It was hard to come—for I don’t know what to say. Indeed, there’s nothing for me to say. I know, of course, what you think of me!”
The other man put this aside with a significant gesture of weariness.