ngle of things, without purpose, without
meaning. That's what life has always been to me, always will be, I
suppose,--a blind, ruthless maze, where I've snatched what I could for
myself, and given up what I couldn't hold. Your friend Gordon did his
share in making it so for me; this man Twombley-Crane as well. Do you
expect me to be inspired with goodness and kindliness by them?"

"Oh, Pyramid had his good points," says I. "You'd find Twombley-Crane
has his, if you knew him well enough."

"And who knows," adds Steele, defiant and bitter, "but that I may have
mine?"

I glances at him curious. And, say, with that set, hard look in them
narrow eyes, and the saggy droop to his mouth corners, he's almost
pathetic. For the first time since he'd drifted across my path I didn't
feel like pitchin' him down the stairs.

"Well, well!" says I soothin'. "Maybe you have. But you don't force 'em
on folks, do you? That ain't the point, though. The question before the
house is about that----"

"Suppose I hand back Twombley-Crane's name," says he, "and try another?"

I shakes my head decided. "No dodgin'," says I. "That point was covered
in Pyramid's gen'ral directions. If you do it at all, you got to take
the list as it runs. But what's a picture more or less? All you got to
do is wrap it up, ship it to Twombley-Crane, and----"

"I--I couldn't!" says J. Bayard, almost groanin'. "Why, I've disliked
him for years, ever since he sent out that cold no! I've always hoped
that something would happen to bend that stiff neck of his; that a panic
would smash him, as I was smashed. But he has gone on, growing richer
and richer, colder and colder. And when I got this sketch away from
him--well, that was a crumb of comfort. Don't you see?"

"Kind of stale and picayune, Steele, it strikes me," says I. "Course,
you're the doctor. If you'd rather see all them other folks that you
dislike come in for a hundred and fifty thousand apiece, with no rakeoff
for you--why, that's your business. But I'd think it over."

"Ye-e-es," says he draggy. "I--I suppose I must."

With that he shakes his shoulders, gets on his feet, and walks out with
his chin well up; leavin' me feelin' like I'd been tryin' to wish a dose
of castor oil on a bad boy.

"Huh!" thinks I. "I wonder if Pyramid guessed all he was lettin' me in
for?"

What J. Bayard would decide to do--drop the whole shootin' match, or
knuckle under in this case in the hopes of gettin' a fat commi