On the chair back the fingers locked tighter and tighter, until they grew white. Tardy comprehension was coming at last.
“You mean to warn me,” Armstrong scarcely recognized his own voice, “that you yourself—”
“Yes, I myself. That’s why I warned you.”
“You yourself,” he repeated, “whom I introduced and took with me as my friend, my best friend—you—Judas!”
“Re-introduced.” Roberts’ eyes were as steady as his voice. “Re-introduced—mark that. Miss Gleason has forgotten, but she was the first girl I met in the University, when I had one suit of frayed clothes to my name, and my stock was below par. Miss Gleason has forgotten, I say, had no reason to remember; but I—Nor—Judas; drop that for all time.... I’ve warned you, you understand.”
“Darley!”
“No—Roberts. I’m no hypocrite. You’ve precipitated this understanding, compelled it; but perhaps it’s as well. I’ll move out of here to-morrow instead of in a month, if you wish. Do you wish it?”
Bit by bit the hands on the chair back, that 109 had been so tense, loosened, and Armstrong sank back in his seat, his face turned away.
“I don’t know—yet.” His fingers were twitching aimlessly. “I want to think.... You, of all men, you!” He turned, his eyes ablaze, his voice thick. “Yes, go to-morrow, damn you! and as for your warning, do as you please, get between us if you can.” He laughed raspingly. “I’ll delay—dangle, you catch that—as long as I see fit. I dare you.”
An instant Roberts stood as he was; slowly and without a word he started for his room. As he did so Armstrong arose swiftly and, all but gropingly, his hand sought the red decanter on the mantel. “I dare you,” he repeated blindly, “dare you!”