“I am afraid I bore you more than I do anything else, Jake,” he said brusquely. “It's only your goodness that allows you to see how damn fond I am of you, and let that make amends for the multitude of my shortcomings.”
They had moved into the hall as he spoke, but Benson still rested his hand on his arm.
“You're a better fellow than you'll ever know, Gibbs,” he said.
“I guess not,” said Gibbs chokingly.
Benson so rarely spoke out of keeping with his habitual reserve that his words seemed weighted with the solemnity of some final utterance.
“Andrew will be around presently to put out the lights and close the house. You need not call him, it will be all right; Goodnight;” and he moved toward the stairway.
“Good-night, Jake;” and with his hand on the door-knob Gibbs turned to look after him. He noticed the droop to his shoulders, that he walked with a lagging step, and his heart swelled with pity for this patient, stricken friend.
“Jake!” he called in a voice shaken by emotion. He wanted to say something, to let him know that he suffered, too, that he did not believe one word of all that had been said; that he could not and never had.
Benson turned quickly, and his foot seemed to catch in the fringe of the rug at the foot of the stairs. The rug slipped treacherously across the polished floor, and the lawyer fell with a startled cry.
Gibbs, his old knees knocking together in his terror, hurried to his side, and bent over the prostrate man.