Rhoda Gray moved quietly, inch by inch, along the side of the wall to gain a point of vantage more nearly opposite the lighted doorway.
And then she stopped again. She could see quite clearly now - that is, there was nothing now to obstruct her view; but the light was miserable and poor, and the single gas-jet that wheezed and flickered did little more than disperse the shadows from its immediate neighborhood in that inner room. But she could see enough - she could see the bent and ill-clad figure of Nicky Viner, as she remembered him, an old, gray-bearded man, wringing his hands in groveling misery, while the mumbling voice, now whining and pleading, now servile, now plucking up courage to indulge in abuse, kept on without even, it seemed, a pause for breath. And she could see the Adventurer, quite unmoved, quite debonair, a curiously patient smile on his face, standing there, much nearer to her, his right hand in the side pocket of his coat, a somewhat significant habit of his, his left hand holding a sheaf of folded, legal-looking documents.
And then she heard the Adventurer speak.
"What a flow of words!" said the Adventurer, in a bored voice.
"You will forgive me, my dear Mr. Viner, if I appear to be facetious, which I am not - but money talks."
"You are a thief, a robber!" The old gray-bearded figure rocked on its feet and kept wringing its hands. "Get out of here! Get out!
Do you hear? Get out! You come to steal from a poor old man, and -"
"Must we go all over that again?" interrupted the Adventurer wearily.
"I have not come to steal anything; I have simply come to sell you these papers, which I am quite sure, once you control yourself and give the matter a little calm consideration, you are really most anxious to buy - at any price.
"It's a lie!" the other croaked hoarsely. "Those papers are a lie!
I am innocent. And I haven't got any money. None! I haven't any.
I am poor - an old man - and poor."
Rhoda Gray felt the blood flush hotly to her cheeks. Somehow she could feel no sympathy for that cringing figure in there; but she felt a hot resentment toward that dapper, immaculately dressed and self-possessed young man, who stood there, silently now, tapping the papers with provoking coolness against the edge of the plain deal table in front of him. And somehow the resentment seemed to take a most peculiar phase. She resented the fact that she should feel resentment, no matter what the man did or said. It was as though, instead of anger, impersonal anger, at this low, miserable act of his, she felt ashamed of him. Her hand clenched fiercely as she crouched there against the wall. It wasn't true! She felt nothing of the sort! Why should she be ashamed of him? What was he to her?
He was frankly a thief, wasn't he? And he was at his pitiful calling now - down to the lowest dregs of it. What else did she expect? Because he had the appearance of a gentleman, was it that her sense of gratitude for what she owed him had made her, deep down in her soul, actually cherish the belief that he really was one - made her hope it, and nourish that hope into belief? Tighter her hand clenched. Her lips parted, and her breath came in short, hard inhalations. Was it true? Was it all only an added misery, where it had seemed there could be none to add to her life in these last few days? Was it true that there was no price she would not have paid to have found him in any role but this abased one that he was playing now?
The Adventurer broke the silence.
"Quite so, my dear Mr. Viner!" he agreed smoothly. "It would appear, then, from what you say that I have been mistaken - even stupidly so, I am afraid. And in that case, I can only apologize for my intrusion, and, as you so delicately put it, get out." He slipped the papers, with a philosophic shrug of his shoulders, into his inside coat pocket, and took a backward step toward the door. "I bid you good-night, then, Mr. Viner. The papers, as you state, are doubtless of no value to you, so you can, of course, have no objection to my handing them over to the police, who -"
"No, no! Wait! Wait!" the other whispered wildly. "Wait!"
"Ah!" murmured the Adventurer.
"I - I'll" - the bent old figure was clawing at his beard - "I'll -"
"Buy them?" suggested the Adventurer pleasantly.
"Yes, I'll - I'll buy them. I - I've got a little money, only a little, all I've been able to save in years, a - a hundred dollars.
"How much did you say?" inquired the Adventurer coldly.
"Two hundred." The voice was a maudlin whine.
The Adventurer took another backward step toward the door.
"Three hundred!"
Another step.
"Five - a thousand!"
The Adventurer laughed suddenly.
"That's better!" he said. "Where you keep a thousand, you keep the rest. Where is the thousand, Mr. Viner?"
The bent figure hesitated a moment; and then, with what sounded like a despairing cry, pointed to the table.
"It's there," he whimpered. "God's curses on you, for the thief you are."
Rhoda Gray found her eyes fixed in sudden, strained fascination on the table - as, she imagined, the Adventurer's were too. It was bare of any covering, nor were there any articles on its surface, nor, as far as she could see, was there any drawer. And now the Adventurer, his right hand still in his coat pocket, and bulging there where she knew quite well it grasped his revolver, stepped abruptly to the table, facing the other with the table between them.
The bent old figure still hesitated, and then, with the despairing cry again, grasped at the top of the table, and jerked it toward him. The surface seemed to slide sideways a little way, a matter of two or three inches, and then stick there; but the Adventurer, in an instant, had thrust the fingers of his left hand into the crevice. He drew out a number of loose banknotes, and thrust his fingers in again for a further supply.
"Open it wider!" he commanded curtly.
"I - I'm trying to," the other mumbled, and bent down to peer under the table. "It's stuck. The catch is underneath, and -"
