“You will listen to a man who is dying. Yes, Bellair, you will listen—who listened to me so much.... Give me drink, so I can talk——”
“It may save you—but not if you take it all at once.”
The creature winced, but his passion moved to its appointed ends. He drew forth the large brown wallet they had often seen; rubbed it in his hands, until his fingers could feel; then opened the leather band. From one receptacle he lifted a thick package of bank-notes.
“I liked you, Bellair—almost as I liked one Belding. I could have done much for you. I hate that man, for he has made my death hard——”
His face turned toward Fleury, but did not meet the preacher’s eyes.
“The Jade brought a sweet cargo to Ameriga, and Stackhouse does not bank in New York.... Bellair, I want to drink—so the talk will come——”
So absurd was the sound of cargo and banking that Bellair thought his mind had wandered again, yet he said:
“You are better. You cannot drink each hour. If this is to help you, you must be sane.”
“I have something to say of imbortance—you will help me, Bellair. It is for you.”
The faces of Fleury and the mother gave him no help. They were kind, but the thing seemed beneath them, as if they were waiting for him to come back from it.