Bellair thought of that. There was a pistol in his coat. He did not want to use it. He believed Stackhouse would do as he said.
“For God’s sake, Bellair——”
“If I give it to you—oh, not for that rubbish!” he pointed to the wallet. “If I give it to you—you will die more quickly——”
“That is what I want.”
“But it is not our way——”
Stackhouse tore loose from his shirtpocket the heavy gold watch and its heavier chain, dropped the whole into one of the folds of the wallet to weight it down. “It will sink,” he said.
“To hell with it——”
“For God’s sake, Bellair!” Stackhouse moaned, his arm rising with the wallet and falling again.
At that instant Bellair thought of Bessie Brealt and her career.... He turned to Fleury and the Mother. They were regarding him with kindest concern—as if he were a loved one who could not fail to do well in any event. Then he thought of the work that Fleury might do—the preacher who had finished with talk, and was so eager to act.... And just then, the little child turned to him from the mother’s breast—a puzzled look, but calm, and a flicker of the damp upper lip, as if it would like to smile, but was not sure.
Bellair held out the whiskey. The wallet was thrust in his hands for reception of the bottle—a frenzied transaction.