"Have you read it?" he asked.
Dysart glanced up abstractedly: "Yes."
"Is it what I told you?"
"Yes—substantially." He dried his damp face; "it comes rather late, you know."
"Not too late," said the other, mistaking him; "your wife is still ready to meet you half-way, Jack."
"Oh—that? I meant the Algonquin matter—" He checked himself, seeing for the first time in his life contempt distorting Grandcourt's heavy face.
"Man! Man!" he said thickly, "is there nothing in that letter for you except money offered?"
"What do you mean?"
"I say, is there nothing in that message to you that touches the manhood in you?"
"You don't know what is in it," said Dysart listlessly. Even Grandcourt's contempt no longer produced any sensation; he looked at the letter, tore it into long strips, crumpled them and stood up with a physical effort: