“Oh, nothing here, Marsh—­” and striding forward, Gilmore disappeared in the building before which they had paused.

For an instant Langham hesitated, and then he followed the gambler.

A step or two in advance of him, Gilmore mounted the stairs, and passing down the hall entered Langham’s office.  Langham followed him into the room; he closed the door, and without a glance at Gilmore removed his hat and overcoat and hung them up on a nail back of the door; the gambler meanwhile had drawn an easy chair toward the open grate at the far end of the room, before which he now established himself with apparent satisfaction.

“I suppose the finding of the coroner’s jury doesn’t amount to much,” he presently said but without looking in Langham’s direction.

The lawyer did not answer him.  He crossed to his desk which filled the space between the two windows overlooking the Square.

“You’re damn social!” snarled Gilmore over his shoulder.

“I told you I was busy,” said Langham, and he began to finger the papers on his desk.

Gilmore swung around in his chair and faced him.

“So you won’t see him—­North, I mean?” he queried.  “Well, you’re a hell of a friend, Marsh.  You’ve been as thick as thieves, and now when he’s up against it good and hard, you’re the first man to turn your back on him!”

Seating himself, Langham took up his pen and began to write.  Gilmore watched him in silence for a moment, a smile of lazy tolerance on his lips.

“Suppose North is acquitted, Marsh; suppose the grand jury doesn’t hold him,” he said at length; “will the search for the murderer go on?”

The pen slipped from Langham’s fingers to the desk.

“Look here, I don’t want to discuss North or his affairs with you.  It’s nothing to me; can’t you get that through your head?”

“As his friend—­” began Gilmore.

“Get rid of that notion, too!”

“That’s what I wanted to hear you say, Marsh!  So you’re not his friend?”

“No!” exclaimed Langham briefly, and his shaking fingers searched among the papers on his desk for the pen he had just dropped.

“So you’re not his friend any more?” repeated Gilmore slowly.  “Well, I expect when a fellow gets hauled up for murder it’s asking a good deal of his friends to stand by him!  Do you know, Marsh, I’m getting an increased respect for the law; it puts the delinquents to such a hell of a lot of trouble.  It’s a good thing to let alone!  I’m thinking mighty seriously of cutting out the games up at my rooms; what would you think of my turning respectable, Marsh?  Would you be among the first to extend the warm right hand of fellowship?”

“Oh, you are respectable enough, Andy!” said Langham.

He seemed vastly relieved at the turn the conversation had taken.  He leaned back in his chair and thrust his hands in his trousers pockets.

“Say, why can’t I put myself where I want to be?  What’s the matter with my style, anyhow?  It’s as good as yours any day, Marsh; and no one ever saw me drunk—­that is a whole lot more than can be said of you; and yet you stand in with the best people, you go to houses where I’d be thrown out if I as much as stuck my nose inside the door!”