“You broke the lock.”
“No. It is intact. It is simple, and surrendered easily.”
“And... you opened it. You probably...” He stopped and stood silent. His voice had gone thin on him, but I couldn’t see that his face displayed any feeling at all, not even resentment. He continued, “In that case... I don’t want it. I don’t want to see it.—But that’s preposterous. Of course I want it. I must have it.”
Wolfe, looking at him with half-closed eyes, motionless, said nothing. That lasted for seconds. All of a sudden Chapin demanded, suddenly hoarse:
“Damn you, where is it?”
Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “Mr. Chapin. Sit down.”
“No.”
“Very well. You can’t have the box. I intend to keep it.”
Still there was no change on the cripple’s face. I didn’t like him, but I was admiring him. His light-colored eyes had kept straight into Wolfe’s, but now they moved; he glanced aside at the chair I had placed for him, firmed his hand on the crook of his stick, and limped three steps and sat down. He looked at Wolfe again and said:
“For twenty years I lived on pity. I don’t know if you are a sensitive man, I don’t know if you can guess what a diet like that would do. I despised it, but I lived on it, because a hungry man takes what he can get. Then I found something else to sustain me. I got a measure of pride in achievement, I ate bread that I earned, I threw away the stick that I needed to walk with, one that had been given me, and bought one of my own. Mr. Wolfe, I was done with pity. I had swallowed it to the extreme of toleration. I was sure that, whatever gestures I might be brought, foolishly or desperately, to accept from my fellow creatures, it would never again be pity.”