Caruthers nodded.
"I would have come sooner," said Lyman, "but the fog was not defined until a few moments ago."
"And I suppose your plan is to send me to the penitentiary. Tell me what you intend to do—don't stand there looking at me that way. Give a man a chance to defend his honor."
"Honor," Lyman repeated, with a cold smile. "You haven't as much honor as a hyena."
"Well, then, let me say name."
"You can say name. A snake has a name. And you want a chance to defend yours."
"Mr. Lyman, I really have no defense—I'm done up. I needed money and I put your name to that note, and if you want to disgrace my family, why you can send me to the penitentiary. I have suffered over it, day and night, and I am going to make the amount good if I live long enough. You can take everything I've got in here. But I suppose you would rather send me to the penitentiary."
Lyman sat down. "When I left my office," said he, "I was angry enough to kill you, but now you appear so contemptible that I am sorry for you."
"And I feel as contemptible as I look."
"I don't think that is quite possible. If you felt as contemptible as you look you'd blow your brains out." He got up and stood looking at Caruthers. He put his hand to his forehead as if a troublesome thought were passing through his mind. "Now that I am here I don't know what to do," said he. "I know that you ought to be punished, but my old weakness comes upon me and I falter." Caruthers brightened and Lyman looked like an abashed criminal.