“Come in, Mr. Armstrong.” Blaine waved genially toward the arm-chair. “What can I do for you?”
The man did not offer to shake hands, but sank wearily into the chair assigned him.
“Do? You can stop hounding me, Henry Blaine! You and Pennington Lawton brought my tragedy upon me as surely as I brought it upon myself, and now you will not leave me alone with my grief and ruin, to drag my miserable life out to the end, but you or your men must dog my every foot-step, spy upon me, hunt me down like a pack of wolves! And why? Why?”
The man’s voice had run its gamut, in the emotion 113 which consumed him, and from a menacing growl of protest, it had risen to a shrill wail of weakness and despair.
Henry Blaine was satisfied.
“Excuse me, Mr. Armstrong,” he said gently. “The receiver is off my telephone, here at your elbow. It would be unfortunate if we were overheard. If you will allow me––”
But he got no further. Quick as he was, the other man was quicker. He sprang up furiously, and dashed the telephone off the desk.
“Is this another of your d––d tricks?” he shouted. “If it is, whoever was listening may hear the rest. You and Pennington Lawton between you, drove my wife to suicide, but you’ll not drive me there! I’m ruined, and broken, and hopeless, but I’ll live on, live till I’m even, do you hear? Live till I’m square with the game!”
His violence died out as swiftly as it had arisen, and he sank down in the chair, his face buried in his bony hands, his thin shoulders shaken with sobs.
Blaine quietly replaced the telephone and receiver, and seated himself.