Milton Nesbit felt a strange thrill as his eyes rested upon the man who was to be his judge. An unspeakable bitterness vibrated through his voice when he again spoke.
“If you are the Owen Hunter of Hunter & Co. and if I were a good Christian I should say that the workings of an Almighty God could be traced in the events of this most fateful day; that he so willed it that it must be just the man whom I have robbed whose hand should stay the act which would have freed me from an accursed fate. But this just God who is said to be all love will not have it so. Earthly justice must first be satisfied; the almighty wrath must first be appeased by giving man a chance to avenge himself upon his fellow man. I simply call it cruel, relentless fate, which has pursued me so many years and which dates from the earliest recollections of my childhood. Very well! pass the sentence which I know lies in your power to enforce, for ‘money rules the world,’ you know. Hand me over to the guardians of the peace and let the law take its course. It matters little what becomes of me now. I may as well sleep behind prison bars as anywhere else. The sunshine of happiness has long since forsaken me; lost in the gloom and darkness of despair.”
Oh, the bitterness, the hopeless misery in the strong man’s voice. He had risen and walked back and forth the full length of the room, then with his elbow resting upon the mantel, his hand supporting his head, he stood glaring into the glowing coals, awaiting his sentence. But Owen now no longer calmly sat enjoying the comforts of the room. As the other ceased speaking he stepped to his side and gently laying his hand upon his shoulder, said:
“Will you look me in the face?”
Silently Nesbit turned and faced Owen. For some minutes they stood thus face to face; then Owen’s hand was extended.
“May I ask you to give me your hand in friendship?”
Surprise was depicted upon Nesbit’s face as he looked at the outstretched palm, and then inquiringly into the face of the man to whom it belonged.
“Friendship?” echoed Milton Nesbit, while he nervously passed his hand over his forehead as if he would dispel the mists which seemed to him to be gathering there.
“And why not? Am I selfish when I ask it? But with my millions a true friend is something which I have not, and now I am waiting to feel the clasp of genuine friendship. Do I ask in vain?”
Milton Nesbit’s face was a study. Queer little quivers were stirring the muscles. Sinking once more into his chair he buried his face in both hands. For some time neither spoke, then the deeply moved man raised his head and looked the other searchingly in the eye.