Huckaby started and gripped the arm of his chair. He was about to protest when Quixtus checked him.
“I want you to know,” said he, “that great changes have taken place since then. I left Paris in ill-health, I return sound. I should like you to grasp the deep significance underlying those few words. I will repeat them.”
He did so. Huckaby looked hard at his patron, who stood the scrutiny with a grave smile.
“I think I understand,” he replied slowly. “Then Billiter and Vandermeer?”
“Billiter and Vandermeer I put out of my life for ever; but I shall see they are kept from want.”
“They can’t be kept from wanting more than you give them,” said Huckaby, whose brain worked swiftly and foresaw blackmail. “You must impose conditions.”
“I never thought of that,” said Quixtus.
“Set a thief to catch a thief,” said the other bitterly; “I’m telling you for your own good.”
“If they attempt to write to me or see me, their allowances will cease.”
He covered his eyes with his hand, as though to shut out their hateful faces. There was a short silence. Huckaby’s lips grew dry. He moistened them with his tongue.