“They have your play out now—reading it,” Markheim observed.
Morning added: “It’s clear to you, isn’t it, why Mr. Reever Kennard didn’t care for the John Morning play——?”
Markheim’s eyes gleamed. This was pure business. “You had the goods and delivered it in his own office——”
“Exactly——”
“You bother me too much about this play. The title is rotten——”
“You’ll like that, when you see Markheim with it. There’s a peculiar thing about the word—it doesn’t die. It never rests. It’s human—divine, too. There’s a cry in it—to some happiness, to some sorrow—to the many, hope.... It sings. I would rather have it than glory.... Listen, ‘Markheim Offers Compassion’—why, that’s a God’s business—offering compassion——”
“You feel like a song-bird this afternoon, Mr. Morning——”
“I’ll be back to-morrow——”
“Too soon——”
“Can’t help it. It’s ready. It will be the big word this Winter. You can read it in an hour. I’m off to-morrow—from Markheim. The Winter will clear my slate in this office, whether you take it or not——”