“I want to tell you something,” said Sypher, standing on the hearthrug with his hands on his hips.  “I’ve just had an offer from the Jebusa Jones Company.”

Septimus listened intently while he told the story, wondering greatly why he, of all unbusinesslike, unpractical people—­in spite of his friendship with Sypher—­should be summoned so urgently to hear it.  If he had suspected that in reality he was playing the part of an animated conscience, he would have shriveled up through fright and confusion.

Said Sypher:  “If I accept this offer I shall have a fair income for the rest of my days.  I can go where I like, and do what I like.  Not a soul can call my commercial honesty in question.  No business man, in his senses, would refuse it.  If I decline, I start the world again with empty pockets.  What shall I do?  Tell me.”

“I?” said Septimus, with his usual gesture of diffidence.  “I’m such a silly ass in such things.”

“Never mind,” said Sypher.  “I’ll do just what you would do.”

Septimus reflected, and said, hesitatingly: 

“I think I should do what Zora would like.  She doesn’t mind empty pockets.”

Sypher dashed his hand across his forehead, and broke into a loud cry.

“I knew you would say that.  I brought you here to say it!  Thank God!  I love her, Septimus.  I love her with every fiber in me.  If I had sold my name to these people I should have sold my honor.  I should have sold my birthright for a mess of pottage.  I couldn’t have looked her in the face again.  Whether she will marry me or not has nothing to do with it.  It would have had nothing to do with it in your case.  You would have been the best kind of fool and so shall I.”

He swung about the room greatly excited, his ebullient nature finding in words relief from past tension.  He laughed aloud, proclaimed his love for Zora, shook his somewhat bewildered friend by the hand, and informed him that he, Septimus, alone of mortals, was responsible for the great decision.  And while Septimus wondered what the deuce he meant, he rang the bell and summoned Shuttleworth.

The dismal manager entered the room.  On seeing Sypher’s cheery face, his own brightened.

“I’ve thought the matter over, Shuttleworth.”

“And you’ve decided—­”

“To refuse the offer, absolutely.”

The manager gasped.  “But, Mr. Sypher, have you reflected—­”

“My good Shuttleworth,” said Sypher, “in all the years we’ve worked together have you ever known me to say I’ve made up my mind when I haven’t?”

Shuttleworth marched out of the room and banged the door, and went forth to declare to the world his opinion of Clem Sypher.  He had always been half crazy; now he had gone stick, stark, staring, raving, biting mad.  And those to whom he told the tale agreed with him.

But Sypher laughed his great laugh.

“Poor Shuttleworth!  He has worked hard to bring off this deal.  I’m sorry for him.  But one can’t serve God and Mammon.”