Criminologists assert, from many years' observation of many men in many lands, that no man positively desires to become a criminal. So little does the average man wish it, that it is usually difficult, even in the case of the most confirmed lawbreaker, to persuade him that he actually is or has been criminal in intent, no matter what his acts may have been.
This state of affairs is equally true in those higher grades of society where instincts are less passionate. Just as the man who kills his king or his father holds himself absolutely innocent of any wrong intent, so the unhappy parasite who steals his wife's earnings for drink, or the bookkeeper who makes away with the contents of the firm's cash drawer in order to play the races, believes himself to be unfortunate only, and more sinned against than sinning. No matter how much of a scoundrel a man may be, his self-analysis brings him far short of the correct degree of turpitude.
Mr. O'Connor was not a villain or a criminal. He was not, according to the standard of many, a dishonest man. But he was not an honest one. He had several weaknesses, the chief among which was venal ambition; and of courage, that quality which makes all other qualities seem just a little tawdry and futile, he had none except in a broad, physical sense. He was not, of course, afraid of the dark, but he was decidedly afraid of James Wintermuth; and when on Monday noon the telephone rang at the call of Mr. Murch, it is not too much to say that he was momentarily shaken.
"Suppose you drop around to the Club in about twenty minutes," was the suave suggestion of the man at the other end of the line.
"For a moment," the Guardian's Vice-President agreed hastily. "For a moment," he repeated, as he replaced the receiver on its hook. It were much better that he and Mr. Murch be not seen together in public until the meat was ready for the fire. And so it was the briefest of interviews that took place between them in the big smoking room. A few words, concluding with a handshake and a "Congratulate you, Mr. President," and the incident was closed. Even had the lynx eyes of Simeon Belknap himself perceived this meeting, he could hardly have found significance in the episode. And an event in the insurance world without significance to Mr. Belknap was a rara avis indeed.
Mr. O'Connor betrayed that night, aside from his customary lack of the refinements of courtesy, the first indication of human weakness that his household had noted for some time past. For a considerable part of the night he lay awake, tossing about in his bed until his long-suffering wife thought he must be ill.
"Is anything the matter?" came her solicitous voice through the dark doorway. And her husband answered irritably:—
"No. Don't bother about me. I'm all right."
Whether this nocturnal disquiet was the last throe of an expiring sense of honor and decency, or whether it was ambition burning in the blood, it is impossible to say. Quite likely it was a little of each. Mr. Wintermuth had been a good friend to O'Connor; still, a man must needs look first after his own interest; no one was apt to butter his bread for him. Sophistry old as the world.
Nevertheless, when morning dawned, the travail of the night had left no mark on Mr. O'Connor's brow. His wife, accustomed from many years of sky searching to look for trouble there, saw the unwrinkled expanse and took heart. Her husband answered her polite morning inquiries with sufficient attention, although he was palpably preoccupied and in no mood for casual conversation.