"Sit down," said Goyle, and Bodney obeyed, looking at him. Goyle lighted a cigarette, turned and pointed to the valise. "The thief is in that grip, and the Judge must see him take the money from the safe. Listen to me a minute. Among my numerous accomplishments I number several failures—one as an actor. But we learn more from a failure than from a success. All right. I heard Howard say that tonight he is going to a reception. In that grip is his semblance—make-up. At the proper time, after Howard is gone, you must lead the Judge in here and see me, as Howard, take money from the safe. On the mother’s account the old man can be made to keep quiet—to hold his tongue, and not even say anything to his son. He changes his combination, the affair blows over—and we’ve got the money." "Monstrous!" exclaimed Bodney, jumping up and glaring at Goyle. "Do you think so? Sit down." Bodney sat down. "Yes, I do think so," he said. "What, the crime or the—" "Both. And the trick! Anybody could see through it. It’s nonsense, it’s rot." "Yes? Now, let me tell you, Brother Bodney, that life itself is but a trick. The world worships a trick—art, literature, music—all tricks. And what sort of art is the most successful? Bold art. What sort of scoundrel is the most admired by the world? The bold scoundrel. Bold art, my boy." "But art has its limits and its rules," Bodney feebly protested. Goyle dropped the stub of his cigarette upon the floor. "Yes, rules for imitators to follow. Originals break rules. Rules are made by weaklings to hamper the success of the strong. You’ve got to take the right view of life," he said, slowly lifting his hand and slowly letting it drop upon his knee. "We are living in the nervous atmosphere of adventure and bold trickery. The spirit of this town hates the stagnant; we wipe our muddy feet on tradition. To us the pig squeal of the present is sweeter than the flute of the past. You and I are intellectual failures, and why? The town is against us. Put an advertisement in tomorrow morning’s newspaper—’Graduates of Harvard and Yale wanted, fifteen dollars a week,’ and see how many answers you’ll get. A cartload—and from men who were turned out prepared to fight the battle of life. Think of it. The man who has had his mind trained to failure, whose teaching has made him a refined weakling, with a mind full of quotations and mystic theories—that man has a cause to be avenged upon life, upon society for misleading him. Hear them laughing in there? You don’t hear me laughing. I’ve got nothing to laugh about. You and I know that there isn’t any future beyond this infernal life. Then, why hesitate to do anything that works toward our advantage here? I’m talking to your reason now. We have gambled, and we have lost." He turned and shook his finger at the valise. "The thief, I tell you, is in that grip, and he will get us out. If it fails, of course, we are done for, but we are done for if we don’t try.