“You were writing that letter to me”—he pointed to it—“after your interview with Quickjohn. Why?”
“I had no time to write before.”
“But you were coming—don’t fence, it is waste of time—you were coming to my house this evening, or you would have telegraphed earlier.”
“No,” Herriard replied watchfully. “I had my doubts as to whether it would serve any good purpose, and meant to have written before.”
“I wish you would understand,” Gastineau said cuttingly, “that there is nothing gained by lying to me. Accepting your statement for what it may be worth, Quickjohn told you something that clenched your decision?”
Each man’s eyes were fixed on the other’s; Herriard’s held to Gastineau’s by the fascination of the evil and danger they signalled.
“Did he? did he?” The question came hissed out with sharp insistence. For Herriard, posed by the direct challenge, hesitated, at a loss for the moment as to the course he should take.
“You believe nothing I say; I will say nothing.”
“Pouf!” It was a poor evasion, and the strong man blew it aside with a contemptuous exclamation. “Just realize the position, Herriard,” he said; “the position in which you stand. I am a dead man; a man with no known or legally recognized existence. As such, I am all-powerful, and, with my brains, intangible.”
“So long,” Herriard found courage to retort, “as I do not proclaim your existence.”