Among those who had taken part in the late exciting events and had now reverted to private life was Sam Sleeny.  His short sentence had expired; he had paid his fine and come back to Matchin’s.  But he was not the quiet, contented workman he had been.  He was sour, sullen, and discontented.  He nourished a dull grudge against the world.  He had tried to renew friendly relations with Maud, but she had repulsed him with positive scorn.  Her mind was full of her new prospects, and she did not care to waste time with him.  The scene in the rose-house rankled in his heart; he could not but think that her mind had been poisoned by Farnham, and his hate gained intensity every hour.

In this frame of mind he fell easily into the control of Offitt.  That worthy had not come under the notice of the law for the part he took in the attack on the Belding house; he had not been recognized by Farnham’s men, nor denounced by his associates; and so, after a day or two of prudential hiding, he came to the surface again.  He met Sam at the very door of the House of Correction, sympathized with him, flattered him, gained his full confidence at last, and held him ready for some purpose which was vague even in his own brain.  He was determined to gain possession of Maud, and he felt it must be through some crime, the manner of which was not quite clear to him.  If he could use Sam to accomplish his purpose and save his own skin, that would be best.  His mind ran constantly upon theft, forgery, burglary, and murder; but he could frame no scheme which did not involve risks that turned him sick.  If he could hit upon something where he might furnish the brains, and Sam the physical force and the risk!  He dwelt upon this day and night.  He urged Sam to talk of his own troubles; of the Matchins; at last, of Maud and his love, and it was not long before the tortured fellow had told him what he saw in the rose-house.  Strangely enough, the thought of his fiancee leaning on the shoulder of another man did not in the least diminish the ardor of Offitt.  His passion was entirely free from respect or good-will.  He used the story to whet the edge of Sam’s hatred against Farnham.

“Why, Sam, my boy,” he would say, “your honor is at stake.”

“I would as soon kill him as eat,” Sam answered.  “But what good would that do me?  She cares no more for me than she does for you.”

Offitt was sitting alone in his room one afternoon; his eyes were staring blankly at the opposite wall; his clinched hands were cold as ice.  He had been sitting in that way motionless for an hour, a prey to a terrible excitement.

It had come about in this way.  He had met in one of the shops he frequented a machinist who rented one of Farnham’s houses.  Offitt had asked him at noon-time to come out and drink a glass of beer with him.  The man complied, and was especially careful to bring his waistcoat with him, saying with a laugh, “I lose my shelter if I lose that.”