Why had this happened to him of all people?  It never for a moment occurred to him to doubt Casey’s word.  He saw it now; hideous as the deed was, Casey was capable of it—­had always been capable of it.  Let it go for a miserable tribute to Casey’s honesty in the past that Gilbart accepted the infernal statement at once and without suspicion.  He knew now that from the bottom of their intercourse this candid devil had been grinning up at him all the time; only his own cowardly, comfortable habit of seeing the world as he wished it had kept his eyes turned from the truth.  Men don’t as a rule commit crimes; not one man in millions translates himself into a crime of this sort; the odds against his daring it are only to be told in millions.  Yet it had happened.  Man or devil, Casey never paltered with his creed; if the world differed from him, then it was Casey against the world; a hopeless business for him, yet he would get in a blow if possible.  And Casey had got in his blow.  The incredible had happened; but (Gilbart groaned) why had it happened to him? In his stupefaction he returned again and again upon this, catching in the flood at that one little straw of self; not inhumanly, as callous to the ruin of others; but pitifully, meanly, because it was the one thing familiar in the roar and din.  He cursed Casey; cursed him for betraying his friendship.  The man had no right—­ He pulled up suddenly, with a laugh.  After all, Casey had played the game, had faced the music, and would go down with the Berenice.  One soul against three hundred and fifty, perhaps; not what you would call atonement; but, after all, the best he had to offer.  Wonder how many Samson pulled down with him at Gaza?  Wonder if the Bible says?

“Beg pardon, Mr. Gilbart?”

It was Mrs. Wilcox standing in the doorway with his tea on a tray.

“It—­it was nothing,” he stammered.  She must have heard his laugh.

“Talking to yourself?  I often hear you at it over your sermons and things; sometimes at your dressing, too; I hears you when I’m in here doing up the room.  You’d like the lamp lit, I suppose?” She set down the tray.

“Not just yet.”

“Well, it’s a bad habit, reading with your meals.”

“It’s not worth while to bring a lamp.  I must drink my tea in a hurry, and run out.  I have an engagement.”

He heard her go out and close the door.  “Casey had no right.  It was a betrayal.  If the man were bent on this infernal crime—­put the atrocity of it aside for a moment—­call it just an ordinary crime; . . . but why need he have written that letter?  Why involve him? Well, not involve, perhaps; still there was a kind of responsibility—­”