a sharp cry of mingled anger and pain
Newmark snatched his hand out and gazed a trifle amazedly at the half
crushed fingers. Orde drew forth the revolver Newmark had grasped
concealed in the coat pocket.

Without hesitation he closed and locked the bedroom door; turned the key
in the lock of the other; tried and fastened the window. The revolver
he opened; spilled out the cartridges into his hand; and then tossed the
empty weapon to Newmark, who had sunk into the chair by the lamp.

"There's your plaything," said he. "So you wanted that affidavit, did
you? Now we have the place to ourselves; and we'll thresh this matter
out."

He paused, collecting his thoughts.

"I don't need to tell you that I've got you about where you live," said
he finally. "Nor what I think of you. The case is open and shut; and I
can send you over the road for the best part of your natural days. Also
I've got these notes and the mortgage."

"Quit it," growled Newmark, "you've got me. Send me up; and be damned."

"That's the question," went on Orde slowly. "I've been at it three days,
without much time off for sleep. You hurt me pretty bad, Joe. I trusted
you; and I thought of you as a friend."

Newmark stirred slightly with impatience.

"I had a hard time getting over that part of it; and about
three-quarters of what was left in the world looked mighty like ashes
for awhile. Then I began to see this thing a little clearer. We've been
together a good many years now; and as near as I can make out you've
been straight as a string with me for eight of them. Then I suppose the
chance came and before you knew it you were in over your neck."

He looked, half-pleading toward Newmark. Newmark made no sign.

"I know that's the way it might be. A man thinks he's mighty brave; and
so he is, as long as he can see what's coming, and get ready for it. But
some day an emergency just comes up and touches him on the shoulder,
and he turns around and sees it all of a sudden. Then he finds he's a
coward. It's pretty hard for me to understand dishonesty, or how a man
can be dishonest. I've tried, but I can't do it. Crookedness isn't my
particular kind of fault. But I do know this: that we every one of us
have something to be forgiven for by some one. I guess I've got a temper
that makes me pretty sorry sometimes. Probably you don't see how it's
possible for a man to get crazy mad about little things. That isn't your
particular kind of fault."

"Oh, for