Peter, meanwhile, continued his frenzy of work for a quarter-hour; then slackened; finally stopped, sighed, ran his long fingers through his hair, and gloomy again, turned wearily around to the desk, unlocked his own particular drawer, brought out the three bank books and resumed his figuring on the pad. If you could have looked over his shoulder you would have seen that his pencil faltered; that he added one column, slowly and laboriously, six or seven times, getting a different result each time; and that then, instead of keeping at it or even throwing the book back into the drawer, he fell to marking over the figures, shading the down strokes, elaborating the dollar signs, enclosing the whole column within a two-lined box and then placing carefully-rounded dots in rows between the double lines. This done, he lowered his head and sighted, to see if the rows were straight. They were not satisfactory. He hunted through the top drawers and then on the bookcase for an eraser....
There was a loud knock at the door.
He started, caught his breath, then sank back, limp and white, in his chair. At the third knocking he managed to get up and go to the door. It was a messenger boy with a note.
Peter held the envelope down in the little circle of yellow light on the desk. It was addressed in Zarin's loose scrawl. The handwriting definitely affected him. It seemed to touch a region of his nervous system that had been worn quiveringly raw of late. He tore the envelope open and unfolded the enclosure. There were two papers pinned together. The top paper was a bill from the Interstellar people for eight hundred and twenty dollars and fifty cents. The other was in Zanin's hand—penciled; “It's getting beyond us, Mann. They offer to carry it through for a sixty per cent, interest. It's a good offer. We've got to take it. Come over to the Muscovy about eight, and I'll have copies of the contract they offer. Don't delay, or the work will stop to-morrow.”
Peter carefully unpinned the two papers, laid them side by side on the desk, smoothed them with his hands. Doing this, lie looked at his hands. The right one he raised, held it out, watched it. It trembled. He then experimented with the left. That trembled, too. He stood irresolute; opened the three savings bank books—spread them beside the papers; stared at the collection long and steadily until it began to exert a hypnotic effect on his unresponsive mind. He finally stopped this; stood up; stared at the Wall. “Still,” ran his thoughts, “I seem to be fairly calm. Perhaps as a creative artist, I shall gain something from the experience. I shall see how men act in utter catastrophe. Come to think of it, very few artists ever see a business failure at short range. This, of course, borders on tragedy. I am done for. But from the way I am taking this now I believe I shall continue to be calm. I must tell Sue, of course... it may make a difference.... I think I shall take one stiff drink. But no more. Trust the one. It will steady my nerves. And I won't look at those things any longer. After the drink I think I shall take a walk. And I shall be deliberate. I shall simply think it out, make my decision and abide by it.”
CHAPTER XXI—OYSTERS AT JIM'S
SUE and the Worm had no more than seated themselves at the Muscovy when Zanin came briskly in, hat in hand—still in the wrinkled old suit, still wearing the gray sweater for a waistcoat—but keen of face, buoyant even. He threaded his way between the tables, nodding here and there in response to the cries of “Hello, Jacob!”—came straight to Sue, and, with a casual greeting for the Worm, bent over and claimed her ear.
“Sue,” he said low; “I called up, then took a chance on finding you here. I've sent the bill to Peter. And I've told him of the break in our plans. The lawyer for the Interstellar people is coming with the new contract—meets me up-stairs in the club. I've told Peter to be here at eight. But I've got to know about you. Is there any danger that you won't go through—finish the pictures?”