mighty badly and he went to McBride as a sort of a last chance.  He found the old fellow alone in the office—­understand, he didn’t go there with any fixed purpose of killing him, his ideas had not carried him that far—­he was willing to borrow the money if the old man would lend it to him.  He probably needed quite a sum, say two or three thousand dollars, and the need was urgent, you must keep that in mind and then you’ll see perfectly how it all happened.  Possibly my man was of the sort who don’t fancy disagreeable interviews and had put off going to the store until the last moment, but once he had settled that point with himself he was determined he wouldn’t come away without the money.  The old fellow, however, took a different view of the situation; he couldn’t see why he should lend any money, especially when the borrower was vague on the matter of security.

“Well, I guess they talked quite a while there at the back of the store, McBride standing in the doorway of the office all the time.  At last it got to my man that he wasn’t to have the money.  But there was trouble ahead of him if he didn’t get it and he wouldn’t give up; he kept on making promises—­urging his need—­and his willingness and ability to meet his obligations.  He was like a starving man in the presence of food, for he knew McBride had the money in his safe and the safe door was open.  His need seemed the only need in all the world, and it came to him that since McBride would not lend him the money he wanted, why not take it from him anyhow?  He couldn’t see consequences, he could only realize that he must have two or three thousand dollars!  Perhaps he got a glimmer of reason just here, and if he did he was pretty badly frightened to think that he should even consider violence; he turned away to leave McBride and the old man followed him a ways down the store, explaining why they couldn’t do business.”

Gilmore paused.  His cigar had gone out; now he struck a match, but he did not take his eyes from Langham’s face.  He did not speak at once even when his cigar was lighted.

Great beads of perspiration stood thick on Langham’s brow, his hair was damp and clammy.  He was living that unspeakable moment over again, with all its madness and horror.  He saw himself as he had walked scowling toward the front of the store; he had paused irresolutely with his hand on the door-knob and then had turned back.  The old merchant was standing close by the scales, a tall gaunt figure in the waning light of day.

“Why do you tell me you can’t do it?” he had demanded with dull anger.  “You have the money, I know that!”

“I didn’t tell you I couldn’t do it, Mr. Langham, I merely intimated that I wouldn’t,” the old man had rejoined dryly.

“You have the money in your safe!”

“What if I have?  It’s mine to do with as I think proper.”

“A larger sum than I want—­than I need!”

“Quite likely.”