He packed the trousers and walked up and down the room, pondering darkly. It was a tempting piece of villainy to kick Huckaby back into the gutter. In a flash it could be done. But, as in all his attempted acts of vileness, the co-ordination between brain and will failed at the critical moment. A new aspect of the case flashed upon his disordered mind, showing an even more diabolical way of achieving Huckaby’s ruin than throwing him back into the gutter. By a curious transmogrification, it was he, Quixtus, who now blazed luridly as the Master of Mischief, and Huckaby as the shrinking innocent. The enforced association of the shrinking innocent with the Master of Mischief could have no other result than the constant sapping of the victim’s volition and the gradual but certain degradation of his soul. To accomplish this was a refinement of devilry far beyond the imagination of his favourite fiend Macathiel. He decided promptly and halted in front of his former myrmidon. It was once more necessary for him, however, like the villain in the old melodrama, to dissemble. He smiled and laid his hand on Huckaby’s shoulder.
“All right,” said he, in the old, kind voice that in the past had so often stabbed Huckaby’s conscience. “I’ll give you the chance. Just stick loyally to me. Stay with the ladies in Paris, and when I come back we can talk about things.”
Huckaby gripped his hand.
“Thank you, Quixtus. I wish I could tell you—I’ve known all along—” he stammered in a hoarse voice—“Oh, I’ve played the devil with everything—and I don’t know which is the damneder fool of us two.”
“I am quite certain,” said Quixtus with a conscious smile, which he assumed was Mephistophelean. “I am quite certain, my dear Huckaby, that you are.”
In spite of the exultation that he felt (or deluded himself into feeling) at the triple wickedness wherewith he purposed to burden his soul, Quixtus dined with Mrs. Fontaine in a subdued frame of mind. It was not the fault of the dinner, for it was carefully selected by Mrs. Fontaine, who smiled pityingly at Quixtus’s gastronomic ignorance; nor was it that of the place, a cosy little restaurant in the Passage Jouffroy; nor that of the lady, who appeared bent on pleasing. Deep down in his soul were stirrings of pity which his clouded brain could not interpret. Their effect, however, was a mild melancholy. Mrs. Fontaine’s trained senses quickly noticed it, and she tuned her talk in key. She prided herself on being a sympathetic woman. By this time she had learned to discount his pessimistic utterances which she knew proceeded from the same psychological source as the lunatic desire to break a woman’s heart which had been the inspiration of the plot. She discerned the essential gentleness of the man, his tender impulses, his integral innocence, and established him in her own eyes as a pathetic spectacle. As to the heart-breaking, she felt secure. It was the only element of humour in the ghastly game, which day by day had grown more repulsive.
It was in this chastened mood that she met Huckaby, on their return to the Continental. Quixtus went up to his room by the lift, and left them standing in the lounge.
“I can’t do it,” she said hurriedly. “Billiter and the whole lot of you can go to the devil. I’m out of it. With a man who can take care of himself, yes. I’ve no compunction. It’s a fair fight. But this is too low down. It’s like robbing a blind beggar. It revolts me. Understand—this is the end of it.”
“Will you believe me,” said Huckaby, “when I say that it’s more than I can swallow either? I’m honest. I’m out of it too. Billiter can go to the devil.”
She looked at him, as she had done before that day; long and searchingly, and her hard eyes gradually softened.