Gilbart accepted the infernal statement at once and without suspicion.
He knew now that from the bottom of their intercourse this candid devil
had been grinning up at him all the time; only his own cowardly,
comfortable habit of seeing the world as he wished it had kept his eyes
turned from the truth. Men don't as a rule commit crimes; not one man
in millions translates himself into a crime of this sort; the odds
against his daring it are only to be told in millions. Yet it had
happened. Man or devil, Casey never paltered with his creed; if the
world differed from him, then it was Casey against the world; a hopeless
business for him, yet he would get in a blow if possible. And Casey had
got in his blow. The incredible had happened; but (Gilbart groaned) why
had it happened to _him?_ In his stupefaction he returned again and
again upon this, catching in the flood at that one little straw of self;
not inhumanly, as callous to the ruin of others; but pitifully, meanly,
because it was the one thing familiar in the roar and din. He cursed
Casey; cursed him for betraying his friendship. The man had no right--
He pulled up suddenly, with a laugh. After all, Casey had played the
game, had faced the music, and would go down with the _Berenice_.
One soul against three hundred and fifty, perhaps; not what you would
call atonement; but, after all, the best he had to offer. Wonder how
many Samson pulled down with him at Gaza? Wonder if the Bible says?

"Beg pardon, Mr. Gilbart?"

It was Mrs. Wilcox standing in the doorway with his tea on a tray.

"It--it was nothing," he stammered. She must have heard his laugh.

"Talking to yourself? I often hear you at it over your sermons and
things; sometimes at your dressing, too; I hears you when I'm in here
doing up the room. You'd like the lamp lit, I suppose?" She set down
the tray.

"Not just yet."

"Well, it's a bad habit, reading with your meals."

"It's not worth while to bring a lamp. I must drink my tea in a hurry,
and run out. I have an engagement."

He heard her go out and close the door. "Casey had no right. It was a
betrayal. If the man were bent on this infernal crime--put the atrocity
of it aside for a moment--call it just an ordinary crime; . . . but why
need he have written that letter? Why involve _him?_ Well, not
involve, perhaps; still there was a kind of responsibility--"

His eyes had been fastened on the little parlour across the road.
Th