A fit of nausea seemed to overcome him and he struggled with it, shivering. “My God! Do you think I can _face_ it? I've come to you for help in the most wretched hour of my life--all darkness, darkness! Just on the eve of triumph to be stricken down--it's so cruel, so devilish! And to think of the horrible comic-weekly misery of it, caught kissing a girl, by a policeman and his sweetheart, the chambermaid! Ugh! The vulgar ridicule--the hideous laughter!” He raised his hands to me, the most grovelling figure of a man I ever saw. “Oh, for God's sake, help me, help me....” Well, sir, it was sickening enough, but after he had gone, and I tumbled into bed again, I thought of Gorgett and laughed myself to sleep with admiration. When Farwell and I got to Gorgett's office, fairly early the next morning, Lafe was sitting there alone, expecting us, of course, as I knew he would be, but in the same characteristic, lazy attitude I'd found him in, the day before; feet up on the desk, hat-brim tilted 'way forward, cigar in the right-hand corner of his mouth, his hands in his pockets, his double-chin mashing down his limp collar. He didn't even turn to look at us as we came in and closed the door. “Come in, gentlemen, come in,” says he, not moving. “I kind of thought you'd be along, about this time.” “Looking for us, were you?” I asked. “Yes,” said he. “Sit down.” We did; Farwell looking pretty pale and red-eyed, and swallowing a good deal. There was a long, long silence. We just sat and watched Gorgett. _I_ didn't want to say anything; and I believe Farwell couldn't. It lasted so long that it began to look as if the little blue haze at the end of Lafe's cigar was all that was going to happen. But by and by he turned his head ever so little, and looked at Knowles. “Got your story for the _Herald_ set up yet?” he asked. Farwell swallowed some more and just shook his head. “Haven't begun to work up the case for the Grand Jury yet?” “No,” answered Farwell, in almost a whisper, his head hanging. “Why,” Lafe said, in a tone of quiet surprise; “you haven't given all that up, have you?” “Yes.” “Well, ain't that strange?” said Lafe. “What's the trouble?” Knowles didn't answer. In fact, I felt mighty sorry for him. All at once, Gorgett's manner changed; he threw away his cigar, the only time I ever saw him do it without lighting another at the end of it. His feet came down to the floor and he wheeled round on Farwell. “I understand your wife's a mighty nice lady, Mr. Knowles.” Farwell's head sank lower till we couldn't see his face, only his fingers working kind of pitifully. “I guess you've had rather a bad night?” said Gorgett, inquiringly. “Oh, my God!” The words came out in a whisper from under Knowles's tilted hat-brim.