“No.” And this time there was no irresolution.
Haviland groaned aloud; the sweat clung in beads to his forehead. He rose from his chair.
“I am offering you fifteen thousand dollars for the stroke of your pen,—if it is not enough, name your own price,” he added hoarsely.
“I can't do it.”
“Do you mean you won't come to terms?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” His face was livid.
“Because I can't do what you ask of me,—I can't shield you, and I can't take your money. I don't suppose you understand,—it wouldn't do me any good—I should feel as though I had robbed some one—I could never tell my wife how I got the money; there would always be that between us. I'll finish what I can of the statement to-morrow and hand in my resignation.”
As he spoke he came slowly to his feet.
Haviland only half heard what John said. He was standing with his hands resting on the table, staring straight ahead into vacancy. The whole world would know! This stupidly honest fool, whose intelligence he had always put at zero, was the Nemesis in his path. For the first time in his life he was cowed. He turned to John with a dumb fear in his eyes.