"As his friend—" began Gilmore.
"Get rid of that notion, too!"
"That's what I wanted to hear you say, Marsh! So you're not his friend?"
"No!" exclaimed Langham briefly, and his shaking fingers searched among the papers on his desk for the pen he had just dropped.
"So you're not his friend any more?" repeated Gilmore slowly. "Well, I expect when a fellow gets hauled up for murder it's asking a good deal of his friends to stand by him! Do you know, Marsh, I'm getting an increased respect for the law; it puts the delinquents to such a hell of a lot of trouble. It's a good thing to let alone! I'm thinking mighty seriously of cutting out the games up at my rooms; what would you think of my turning respectable, Marsh? Would you be among the first to extend the warm right hand of fellowship?"
"Oh, you are respectable enough, Andy!" said Langham.
He seemed vastly relieved at the turn the conversation had taken. He leaned back in his chair and thrust his hands in his trousers pockets.
"Say, why can't I put myself where I want to be? What's the matter with my style, anyhow? It's as good as yours any day, Marsh; and no one ever saw me drunk—that is a whole lot more than can be said of you; and yet you stand in with the best people, you go to houses where I'd be thrown out if I as much as stuck my nose inside the door!"
"Your style's all right, Andy!" Langham hastened to assure him.
"Well, it's as good as yours any day!"