He walked slowly towards the door. Harrison rose and, awkwardly enough, followed suit. There was a moment's tense silence. Then Gordon stepped forward and laid his hand on Mason's arm. "For God's sake, Jim," he cried, "don't let's part this way. We seem to look at this thing differently, but we've been too good friends to start quarreling over it now. Give me a week to think the whole proposition over, and you take the same. Pretty nearly everything in the world can be fixed up by some sort of a compromise. You're sure you're right, and I'm sure I'm right, but I'm not going to quarrel with you and Jack, if we never have a mine at all. And if we find we can't come to terms, and there's anything else I can do, why, I'll be ready, just the same, to help out any time in any way I can." By good fortune he had struck the proper chord. Almost instantly Mason's face cleared, and with, for him, unusual feeling, he extended his hand. "That sounds more like it," he cried, "we'll sleep on it for a while, anyway, and see what we can fix up." He paused a moment, then added gruffly, "I guess maybe I spoke kind of hasty, too." Gordon laughed. "Oh, that's all right," he said. "Maybe you're right, and I'm wrong, after all. But let's make an honest try to get together, anyway, and see if we don't come out better than we think. Good night, Jim; good night, Jack; see you again in a day or two; good night." His tone was easy and pleasant, his expression fairness and cordiality itself, yet scarcely had the door closed behind them when his whole face suddenly darkened and distorted with rage. "You fool," he muttered; "you damned straitlaced old fool. To have a chance like that, and turn it down because you thought it wasn't honest. Well, you've had your chance, and it won't come again--" Just for a moment he paused, and then, his eyes gleaming with passion under his frowning brows, he added, with savage, deliberate meaning, "It won't come again, as long as you live." CHAPTER VI THE SPINNING OF THE WEB Bill Hinckley, pallid, unshaven, tremulous with drink, his drooping lower lip destroying whatever intelligence of expression he might have had when sober, blinked across the table at Harrison, and with his tattered coat sleeve wiped the maudlin tears from his staring, bloodshot eyes. "I'm damn much obliged, Jack," he quavered, "you're good frien' to me always, an' I'll never forget it, never. I thought I was down 'n out for good, 'n would have been, too, 'f 'twan't for you. You're good frien', Jack, an' I'll never forget it, never."