“Yes, I know,” returned Atherton. “I remember how you felt. I couldn't share your feeling, but I respected it. However, I doubt if your loan was a benefit to either of them. It probably tempted him to count upon money that he hadn't earned, and that's always corrupting.” “Yes,” Halleck replied. “But I can't say that, so far as he's concerned, I'm very sorry. I don't suppose it would do her any good if I forced him to disgorge any balance he may have left from his wagers?” “No, hardly.” “Then I shall let him alone.” The subject was dismissed, and Atherton waited for Halleck to speak of the business on which he had come. But Halleck only played with the paper cutter which his left hand had found on the table near him, and, with his chin sunk on his breast, seemed lost in an unhappy reverie. “I hope you won't accuse yourself of doing him an injury,” said Atherton, at last, with a smile. “Injury?” demanded Halleck, quickly. “What injury? How?” “By lending him that money.” “Oh! I had forgotten that; I wasn't thinking of it,” returned Halleck impatiently. “I was thinking of something different. I'm aware of disliking the man so much, that I should be willing to have greater harm than that happen to him,--the greatest, for what I know. Though I don't know, after all, that it would be harm. In another life, if there is one, he might start in a new direction; but that isn't imaginable of him here; he can only go from bad to worse; he can only make more and more sorrow and shame. Why shouldn't one wish him dead, when his death could do nothing but good?” “I suppose you don't expect me to answer such a question seriously.” “But suppose I did?” “Then I should say that no man ever wished any such good as that, except from the worst motive; and the less one has to do with such questions, even as abstractions, the better.” “You're right,” said Halleck. “But why do you call it an abstraction?” “Because, in your case, nothing else is conceivable.” “I told you I was willing the worst should happen to him.” “And I didn't believe you.” Halleck lay back in his chair, and laughed wearily. “I wish I could convince somebody of my wickedness. But it seems to be useless to try. I say things that ought to raise the roof, both to you here and to Olive at home, and you tell me you don't believe me, and she tells me that Mrs. Hubbard thinks me a saint. I suppose now, that if I took you by the button-hole and informed you confidentially that I had stopped long enough at 129 Clover Street to put Bartley Hubbard quietly out of the way, you wouldn't send for a policeman.” “I should send for a doctor,” said Atherton.