Tetlow shook his large, impressively molded head. "Shady," said he.

"Shady."

Norman smiled with good-natured patience. "You sound like Burroughs or Galloway when they are denouncing a man for trying to get rich by the same methods they pursued. My dear Bill, don't be one of those lawyers who will do the queer work for a client but not for themselves. There's no sense, no morality, no intelligent hypocrisy even, in that. We didn't create the commercial morality of the present day. For G.o.d's sake, let's not be of the poor fools who practice it but get none of its benefits."

Tetlow shifted uneasily. "I don't like to hear that sort of thing," said he, apologetic and nervous.

"Is it true?"

"Yes. But--d.a.m.n it, I don't like to hear it."

"That is to say, you're willing to pay the price of remaining small and obscure just for the pleasure of indulging in a wretched hypocrisy of a self-deception. Bill, come out of the small cla.s.s. Whether you go in with me or not, come out of the cla.s.s of understrappers. What's the difference between the big men and their little followers? Why, the big men _see_. They don't deceive themselves with the cant they pour out for the benefit of the ignorant mob."

Tetlow was listening like a pupil to a teacher. That was always his att.i.tude toward Norman.

"The big men," continued Norman, "know that canting is necessary--that one must always profess high and disinterested motives, and so on, and so on. But they don't let their hypocritical talk influence their actions. How is it with the little fellows? Why, they believe the flapdoodle the leaders talk. They go into the enterprise, do all the small dirty work, lie and cheat and steal, and hand over the proceeds to the big fellows, for the sake of a pat on the back and a noisy 'Honest fellow! Here are a few crumbs for you.' And crumbs are all that a weak, silly, hypocritical fool deserves. Can you deny it?"

"No doubt you're right, Fred," conceded Tetlow. "But I'm afraid I haven't the nerve."

"Come in behind me. I've got nerve for two--_now_!"

At that triumphant "now" Tetlow looked curiously at his friend. "Yes, _it_ has changed you--changed you back to what you were. I don't understand."

"It isn't necessary that you understand," rejoined Norman."

"Do you think you could really carry through that scheme you've just outlined?"

"I see it fascinates you."

"I've no objection to rising to the cla.s.s of big men," said Tetlow. "But aren't you letting your confidence in yourself deceive you?"

"Did I ever let it deceive me?"

"No," confessed Tetlow. "I've often watched you, and thought you'd fall through it, or stumble at least. But you never did."

"And shall I tell you why? Because I use my self-confidence and my hopefulness and all my optimistic qualities only to create an atmosphere of success. But when it comes to planning a move of any kind, when I a.s.semble my lieutenants round the council board in my brain, I never permit a single cheerful one to speak, or even to enter. It's a serious, gloomy circle of faces, Bill."

Tetlow nodded reminiscently. "Yes, you always were like that, Fred."

"And the one who does the most talking at my council is the gloomiest of all. He's Lieutenant Flawpicker. He can't see any hope for anything.

He sees all the possibilities of failure. He sees all the chances against success. And what's the result? Why, when the council rises it has taken out of the plan every chance of mishap that my intelligence could foresee and it has provided not one but several safe lines of orderly retreat in case success proves impossible."

Tetlow gazed at Norman in worshipful admiration. "What a brain! What a mind!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "And to think that _you_ could be upset by a _woman_!"

Norman leaned back in his chair smiling broadly. "Not by a woman," he corrected. "By a girl--an inexperienced girl of twenty."

"It seems incredible."

"A grain of dust, dropped into a watch movement in just the right place--you know what happens."

Tetlow nodded. Then, with a sharp, anxious look, "But it's all over?"

Norman hesitated. "I believe so," he said.

Tetlow rose and rubbed his thighs. He had been sitting long in the same position, and he was now stout enough to suffer from fat man's cramp.

"Well," said he, "we needn't bother about that Universal Fuel scheme at present. I can guarantee you the three thousand dollars, and the other things."

Norman shook his head. "Not enough," he said.

"You want more money?"

"No. But I will not work, or rather, wait, in the dark. Tell your princ.i.p.als that I must be let in."

Tetlow hesitated, walking about the office. Finally he said, "Look here, Fred--you think I deceived you the other day--posed as your friend when in reality I was simply acting as agent for people who wanted you."

Norman gave Tetlow a look that made him redden with pleasure. "No, I don't, old man," said he. "I know you recommended me--and that they were shy of me because of the way I've been acting--and that you stood sponsor for me. Isn't that right?"

"Something like that," admitted Tetlow. "But they were eager to get you.

It was only a question of trusting you. I was able to do you a good turn there."

"And I'll make a rich man, and a famous one, of you," said Norman.

"Yes. I believe you will," cried Tetlow, tears in his prominent studious eyes. "I'll see those people in a day or two, and let you know. Do you need money right away? Of course you do." And down he sat and drew a check for fifteen hundred dollars.

Norman laughed as he glanced to see if it was correctly drawn. "I'd not have dared return to my bride with empty pockets. That's what it means to live in New York."

Tetlow grinned. "A sentimental town, isn't it? Especially the women."

"Oh, I don't blame them," said Norman. "They need the money, and the only way they've got of making it is out of sentiment. And you must admit they give a bully good quality, if the payment is all right."

Tetlow shrugged his shoulders. "I'm glad I don't need them," said he.

"It gives me the creeps to see them gliding about with their beautiful dresses and their sweet, soft faces."

He and Norman lunched together in an out-of-the way restaurant. After a busy and a happy afternoon, Norman returned early to the hotel. He had cashed his check. He was in funds. He would give her another and more thrilling taste of the joy that was to be hers through him--and soon she would be giving even as she got--for he would teach her not to fear love, not to shrink from it, but to rejoice in it and to let it permeate and complete all her charms.

He ascended to the apartment and knocked. There was no answer. He searched in vain for a chambermaid to let him in. He descended to the office. "Oh, Mr. Norman," said one of the clerks. "Your wife left this note for you."

Norman took it. "She went out?"

"About three o'clock--with a young gentleman who called on her. They came back a while ago and she left the note."

"Thank you," said Norman. He took his key, went up to the apartment. Not until he had closed and locked the door did he open the note. He read:

"Last night you broke your promise. So I am going away. Don't look for me. It won't be any use. When I decide what to do I'll send you word."

He was standing at the table. He tossed the note on the marble, threw open the bedroom door. The black chiffon dress, the big plumed hat, and all the other articles they had bought were spread upon the bed, arranged with the obvious intention that he should see at a glance she had taken nothing away with her.

"h.e.l.l!" he said aloud. "Why didn't I let her go yesterday morning?"