"Of June, sixty-three. On that day, as I started to tell them—now, I want to be exact, and I'll tell you all about it." The old man sat down, crossed his legs, took a few puffs at his pipe, preliminaries to a long recital; but the young fellow, standing near, began to shift about in impatience. "I remember exactly what sort of a day it was. There had been a threat of rain, but the clouds—"
"Oh, I don't care anything about it."
"What!"
"I say, I don't care anything about it."
"The hell you don't! Why, you trifling rascal, I raised you; you owe almost your very existence to me. And now you tell me that you don't care anything about it. Go on out, then. You shan't hear it now, after your ingratitude." Bodney strode out, and the old man shouted after him, "I wouldn't tell you that story to save your life." Laughter came from the drawing room. William grunted contemptuously. "There's John telling his yarns. And that preacher—why, if I couldn't tell a better story than a preacher—" He broke off and got up with sudden energy. "But they've got to hear that story. They can't get away from it." And muttering, he walked out briskly.
Bodney stepped back into the room. He looked at the light, turned it lower, sat down and, leaning forward, covered his face with his hands. But he did not remain long in this position; he got up and went to the safe, put his hand upon it, snatched it away, put it back and stood there, gazing at the light. Then he went to the door and beckoned. Goyle, disguised as Howard, walked in with insolent coolness. In Bodney's room he had dressed himself, posing before the glass, arranging his bronze beard, clipping here and there, touching up his features with paint—and Bodney had stood by, dumb with astonishment. The dress suit, everything, was complete, and when he came out he imitated Howard's walk. Bodney could not help admiring the superb control he had of his nerves; but more than once he felt an impulse to kill him, particularly when, in response to the beckoning, he stepped into the office.
"If it fails, I shoot you," Bodney whispered.
"Rot. It can't fail. Don't I look like him?"
"Yes. You would deceive me—you—"
"Art, bold art," said Goyle. "A man ought to be willing to die for his art. Turn the light a little higher."