It was his manner more than his words that suddenly swept away Dick's
delicacy and aroused his anger. “The hell you haven't!” was his reply.
“Certainly not.”
“You don't expect me to believe that. You have no case against me now.”
“I grant you that. And I can promise you that you won't be detained more
than a few days at the outside. But this business has passed up out of
my hands now. All I can do is to deliver you up, make my report, and set
the machinery in motion for your release.”
Dick sat motionless, gazing into the shadows before him. “What right had
you to let Pink go, then?”
“That was different.”
“How?--How?”
“Nobody ever looked on Harper as of any importance in the business.”
“That is no answer. You're holding me on a technicality. The importance
of the man makes no difference when you are dealing in red tape.”
“See here, Smiley, don't you think you had better stop abusing me, and
take a sensible view of it?”
As he spoke, they were crossing State Street, and the brighter light
illuminated the interior of the carriage. For reply, Dick turned and
looked at his custodian, looked him through and through with a gaze of
profound contempt. Words were not necessary; Beveridge saw that Dick
had fathomed his motives, Dick saw that he was understood. At the moment
neither was thinking of the gloomy city that was closing in around
them; for both saw the wide, free beach, the gleaming lake, the two long
piers, the quaint little house on stilts, the upper balcony with its
burden of forget-me-nots and geraniums and all the blossoms that Annie
loved. And both had in their nostrils the refreshing smell of the east
wind--made up of all the faint mingled odors of Lake Michigan--a little
pine in it, a little fish in it, but, more than all, the health and
strength and wholesome sweetness of the Lakes. And both were silent
while the carriage rattled along, while they stepped out, crossed the
walk, and entered a stone building with barred windows, while, with
Beveridge on one side and a guard on the other, Dick walked to his cell.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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