Farrell smiled knowingly, as befitted a man of his occupation—a New Yorker, up to snuff. The veiled insinuation disgusted Crane. Was everything in the world vile? He had left a young life swimming hopelessly in the breakers of disaster, buoyed only by faith and love; and at his side sat a man who winked complacently, and beamed upon him with senile admiration because of his supposed gallantry.
Perhaps a year before this moral angularity would not have affected him; it would not have appealed to him as being either clever or objectionable; he would simply not have noticed it at all. But Allis Porter had originated a revolution in his manner of thought. He even fought against the softer awakening; it was like destroying the lifelong habits of a man. His callousness had been a shield that had saved him troublous misgivings; behind this shield, even in rapacity, he had experienced peace of mind, absence of remorse. If he could have put away from him his love for the girl he would have done so willingly. Why should he battle and strive for an unattainable something as intangible as a dream? It was so paradoxical that Allis's love for Mortimer seemed hopeless because of the latter's defeat, while his, Crane's love, was equally hopeless in his hour of victory.
Farrell's voice drew him from this psychological muddle in tones that sounded harsh as the cawing of homing ravens at eventime.
“Will it be a court case?” he queried.
“What?” asked Crane, from his tangled elysium.
“That high roller in the bank.”
“Oh! I can't say yet what it will lead to.” Crane's caution always asserted itself first.
“Well, I've been thinking it over. That's the guy, right enough, but when it comes to swearing to a man's identity in court, it's just a bit ticklish.”
Crane frowned. He disliked men who hedged. He always planned first, then plunged; evidently his companion had plunged first, and was now verifying his plans.
Farrell continued, “You see what I mean?”