He would confess no more than that there ought to have been.  “I don’t see how he could stagger through with that load on his conscience.  I’m not sure I like his being able to do so.”

She was silent in the misgiving which she shared with him, but she said:  “I wonder how far it has gone with him and Miss Triscoe?”

“Well, from his wanting you to give his message to the general in the plural—­”

“Don’t laugh!  It’s wicked to laugh!  It’s heartless!” she cried, hysterically.  “What will he do, poor fellow?”

“I’ve an idea that he will light on his feet, somehow.  But, at any rate, he’s doing the right thing in going to own up to Stoller.”

“Oh, Stoller!  I care nothing for Stoller!  Don’t speak to me of Stoller!”

Burnamy fond the Bird of Prey, as he no longer had the heart to call him, walking up and down in his room like an eagle caught in a trap.  He erected his crest fiercely enough, though, when the young fellow came in at his loudly shouted, “Herein!”

“What do you want?” he demanded, brutally.

This simplified Burnamy’s task, while it made it more loathsome.  He answered not much less brutally, “I want to tell you that I think I used you badly, that I let you betray yourself, that I feel myself to blame.”  He could have added, “Curse you!” without change of tone.

Stoller sneered in a derision that showed his lower teeth like a dog’s when he snarls.  “You want to get back!”

“No,” said Burnamy, mildly, and with increasing sadness as he spoke.  “I don’t want to get back.  Nothing would induce me.  I’m going away on the first train.”

“Well, you’re not!” shouted Stoller.  “You’ve lied me into this—­”

“Look out!” Burnamy turned white.

“Didn’t you lie me into it, if you let me fool myself, as you say?” Stoller pursued, and Burnamy felt himself weaken through his wrath.  “Well, then, you got to lie me out of it.  I been going over the damn thing, all night—­and you can do it for me.  I know you can do it,” he gave way in a plea that was almost a whimper.  “Look here!  You see if you can’t.  I’ll make it all right with you.  I’ll pay you whatever you think is right—­whatever you say.”

“Oh!” said Burnamy, in otherwise unutterable disgust.

“You kin,” Stoller went on, breaking down more and more into his adopted Hoosier, in the stress of his anxiety.  “I know you kin, Mr. Burnamy.”  He pushed the paper containing his letter into Burnamy’s hands, and pointed out a succession of marked passages.  “There!  And here!  And this place!  Don’t you see how you could make out that it meant something else, or was just ironical?” He went on to prove how the text might be given the complexion he wished, and Burnamy saw that he had really thought it not impossibly out.  “I can’t put it in writing as well as you; but I’ve done all the work, and all you’ve got to do is to give it some of them turns of yours.  I’ll