“A great deal, I should say. Let me use the knife a little, and then I’ll try to sew the wound up. You went your own way--which you admit was not the way of decency--till you got tired of it. Then you faced about and said to yourself that all these things should be as if they never had been. That was right and proper, but it was only the first step in a longish journey. Since that time you have taken several other steps, and now you have reached a point where society begins to concern itself, demanding from you a reasonable guarantee of good faith.” “Hang society! I suppose that is what the mother meant when she said I hadn’t repented.” “She was quite right. You haven’t repented, in the sense that you are sorry for what you have done. You were merely tired of one thing and so took up another, forgetting that in this game of life he who plays must also pay.” “I am paying now, at any rate.” “No, you are not; you are only suffering the consequences of not having paid.” Brant made more turns in the narrow walkway, and scowled and frowned and otherwise gave signs that the friendly knife had cut deep. It is not every man who can probe his own wound, but this man did it, as his silence-breaking word declared: “Tell me what I am to do, Forsyth, and I’ll do it if it shortens my life.” “The thing that you have to do makes for longevity. It is merely to settle down in humdrum good behaviour and wait.” “For how long?” The editor shrugged. “_Quien sabe?_ Till the price is paid. Society will let you know when it believes you are to be trusted.” Brant sat down again and jammed his hands deep into his pockets. “Wait, you say. That is the one thing I can’t do. Set me any task, however desperate, that I can do and have done with it, and I am your man. But the waiting game will first drive me mad and then kill me.” “No, it won’t. Other men have had it to do.” “But I shall lose my chance of happiness in any event.” “Not necessarily. Certainly not if the young woman loves you.” “You mean that she would wait, too? Possibly she might, if she knew; but she doesn’t, you know.” Forsyth shrugged again. “I presume I am a traitor to my kind for suggesting it, but you are not under bonds not to tell her, are you?” “No; I might have been, if the mother had seen fit to put it that way. But she didn’t. She declared open war, and she needn’t complain if I borrow her weapons.” “No. And there is little doubt about your being able to hold your own in any stand-up fight. By the way, speaking of fights, did you shoot that fellow who was trying to bully me?” “No; I shot his pistol out of his hand.” “Purposely?” “Of course.” “It is a sheer marvel to me, the accuracy and the fact itself. I don’t understand how you managed to hit it; and I didn’t suppose a bullet would knock a pistol out of a man’s hand.”