"Ah, which you hold is not honest. A most rare but truthful avowal, since nothing you hold is honest." "In my willingness to help the weak," Richmond replied, "I have held your overcoat while you put it on." "And it was not an honest covering until you took your hands off." "Neither did it cover honesty until some other man put it on by mistake," Richmond rejoined. DeGolyer went to his office, and Richmond and McGlenn, wrangling as they walked along, betook themselves to the Press Club. "I tell you," said McGlenn, as they were going up the stairs, "that he needs our sympathy. He has suffered, but having suffered, he is great." Thus the weeks were sprinkled with light incidents, and thus the days dripped into the past--and a designated future was drawing near. "Well," Witherspoon remarked one Sunday morning, "the time set by your insane friend will soon be up." "Yes, within a week," DeGolyer replied. "I should think that he is more in need of apartments in an asylum than of a newspaper; but if he thinks he knows his business, all right; we have nothing to say. What has he agreed to give for the paper?" "No price has been fixed, but there'll be no trouble about that." "I hope not." "Did you understand mother and Ellen to say they were going out shopping to-morrow afternoon?" DeGolyer asked. "Yes, but what of it?" "There's this of it: If they decide to go, I want you to meet me here at three o'clock." "Why can't you meet me at the store?" "Don't I tell you that my friend is peculiar?" "Oh, it's to meet him, eh? All right, I'll be here." His play was nearing the end. To-morrow he must snatch "the make-up" off his face. He felt a sadness that was more than half a joy. He should be free; he should be honest, and being honest, he could summon that most sterling of all strength, a manly self-respect. He had thought himself strong, but had found himself weak. The love of money, which at first had seemed so gross, at last had conquered him. This thought did not sting him now; it softened him, made him look with a more forgiving eye upon tempted human nature. But was it money that had tempted him to turn from a purpose so resolutely formed? Had not Witherspoon's argument and Ellen's persuasion left him determined to reserve one refuge for his mind--one closet wherein he could hang the cast-off garment of real self? Then it was the appeal of that gentle woman whom he called mother; it was not money. But after yielding to the mother he had found himself without a prop, and at last he had felt a contempt for a moderate income and had boasted to himself that he could buy a man. And for this he reproached himself. How grim was that something known as fate, how mockingly did it play with the children of men, and in that mockery how cold a justice! But he should be free, and that thought thrilled him.