He stopped. Wolfe murmured. “Not sure. Not sure unless you carried death ready at hand.”
“Right. I learn that today. I seem to have acquired a new and active antipathy to death.”
“And as regards pity...”
I need it. I ask for it. I discovered an hour ago that you had got my box, and I have been considering ways and means. I can see no other way to get it than to plead with you. Force” — he smiled the smile that his eyes ignored — “is not feasible. The force of law is of course, under the circumstances, out of the question. Cunning — I have no cunning, except with words. There is no way but to call upon your pity. I do so, I plead with you. The box is mine by purchase. The contents are mine by... by sacrifice. By purchase I can say, though not with money. I ask you to give it back to me.”
“Well. What plea have you to offer?”
“The plea of my need, my very real need, and your indifference.”
“You are wrong there, Mr. Chapin. I need it too.”
“No. It is you who are wrong. It is valueless to you.”
“But, my dear sir.” Wolfe wiggled a finger. “If I permit you to be the judge of your own needs you must grant me the same privilege. What other plea?”
“None. I tell you, I will take it in pity.”