“I can’t say that it was wholly unexpected,” he said evenly, with the tragic suggestion of a smile; “especially as you thwarted every effort of mine to secure the record. But then . . . the fortunes of the game are always uncertain.” His smile faded, and his manner became grave. “You have acted generously toward me, Mr. Markham, in shielding me from the canaille; and because I appreciate that courtesy I should like you to know that the game I played was one in which I had no alternative.”
“Your motive, however powerful,” said Markham, “cannot extenuate your crime.”
“Do you think I seek extenuation?” Spotswoode dismissed the imputation with a contemptuous gesture. “I’m not a schoolboy. I calculated the consequences of my course of action, and after weighing the various factors involved, decided to risk it. It was a gamble, to be sure; but it’s not my habit to complain about the misfortunes of a deliberately planned risk. Furthermore, the choice was practically forced upon me. Had I not gambled in this instance, I stood to lose heavily nevertheless.”
His face grew bitter.
“This woman, Mr. Markham, had demanded the impossible of me. Not content with bleeding me financially, she demanded legal protection, position, social prestige—such things as only my name could give her. She informed me I must divorce my wife and marry her. I wonder if you apprehend the enormity of that demand? . . . You see, Mr. Markham, I love my wife, and I have children whom I love. I will not insult your intelligence by explaining how, despite my conduct, such a thing is entirely possible. . . . And yet, this woman commanded me to wreck my life and crush utterly those I held dear, solely to gratify her petty, ridiculous ambition! When I refused, she threatened to expose our relations to my wife, to send her copies of the letters I had written, to sue me publicly—in fine, to create such a scandal that, in any event, my life would be ruined, my family disgraced, my home destroyed.”
He paused and drew a deep inspiration.
“I have never been partial to half-way measures,” he continued impassively. “I have no talent for compromise. Perhaps I am a victim of my heritage. But my instinct is to play out a hand to the last chip—to force whatever danger threatens. And for just five minutes, a week ago, I understood how the fanatics of old could, with a calm mind and a sense of righteousness, torture their enemies who threatened them with spiritual destruction. . . . I chose the only course which might save those I love from disgrace and suffering. It meant taking a desperate risk. But the blood within me was such that I did not hesitate, and I was fired by the agony of a tremendous hate. I staked my life against a living death, on the remote chance of attaining peace. And I lost.”
Again he smiled faintly.
“Yes—the fortunes of the game. . . . But don’t think for a minute that I am complaining or seeking sympathy. I have lied to others perhaps, but not to myself. I detest a whiner—a self-excuser. I want you to understand that.”
He reached to the table at his side and took up a small limp-leather volume.