Chapter 3 THE NIGHT CAME BACK WITH A RUSH.

Bodney led the Judge to his room on the second floor, where he left him almost in a state of collapse. He spoke of calling Mrs. Elbridge, but the old man shook his head, which Bodney knew he would do, and in a broken voice said that he wanted to be left alone. At the time when the Judge left the drawing room with Bodney, Bradley was bidding the family good-night, but lingered a moment longer to join the company in a laugh at William, who, having settled his date to his own satisfaction, had forgotten the point of the story.

Bodney's room was on the first floor, off the passage, and, going thither, he found Goyle sitting on the side of the bed, not as Howard, but as himself. The scoundrel declared that it had worked like a charm, but that the clang of the gong had prevented his getting any money. That, however, was a minor consideration. He needed money, it was true; he had not expected much, but even a little would have helped him greatly. A lower order of mind might have brooded over the disappointment, but his mind was exultant over the success of his art. He argued that if his impersonation of a son could deceive a father, he might bring forth a Hamlet to charm an audience.

"How is he?" Goyle asked, as Bodney stepped into the room.

"Don't talk to me, now," said Bodney, sitting down. He took up a newspaper and fanned himself. "For a time I wished that I had killed you."

"Yes? And now?"

"I wish that you had killed me. Tell me, are you a human being? I don't believe you are. I don't believe that any human being could have the influence over me that you have had-that you still have, you scoundrel. I wish I could stab you."

"Can't you?"

"No. My arm would fall, paralyzed. I used to scout the idea of a personal devil, but I believe in one now. He is sitting on my bed. He has compelled me to do something-"

"It worked like a charm, George; and now, old fellow, don't hold a grudge against me. I have taught you more than you ever learned before; I have shown you that a man can do almost anything-that men are but children to be deluded by trickery. There, for instance, is a judge, a man who was set up to pass upon the actions of men. What did I do? Convinced him that his own son is a robber. Was that right? Perhaps. Why should such a man have been a judge? What wrongs may not his shortsightedness have caused him to commit? We can't tell. He may have committed a thousand unconscious crimes. But an unconscious crime may be just as bad as a conscious one. He has been sitting above other men. Now let him suffer; it is due him. And his son! What does he care for you or me? He reads, and thinks that he is wise. He has stuffed himself with the echo of feeble minds; and now let him wallow in his wisdom. Look at me. Are you sorry for what we have done? Look at me."

Bodney made an effort to get up, but his strength seemed to fail him, and he remained as he was, gazing at Goyle. "George," Goyle continued, his eyes glittering, "I was the hope of a father, a better man than Judge Elbridge. But he was ruined by honest men and died of a broken heart. That was all right; it was a part of life's infamous plan. Everything is all right--a part of the plan. My friends called me a genius; they believed that I was to astonish the world, and I believed it. I bent myself to study, but one day the bubble burst and I felt then that nothing amounted to anything-that all was a fraud. The world is the enemy of every man. Every man is the natural enemy of every other man. Evil has always triumphed and always will. The churches meet to reform their creeds. After a while they must revise out God-another bubble, constantly bursting. Then, why should there be a conscience? That's the point I want to make. Why should you and I suffer on account of anything we have done? Everything you see will soon pass away. Nothing is the only thing eternal. Then, let us make the most of our opportunities for animal enjoyment. The animal is the only substance. Intellectuality is a shadow. Are you sorry for what I have done?"

He fixed his glittering eyes upon Bodney, and, gazing at him, Bodney answered: "No, I am not. It was marked out for us, and I don't suppose we could help it; but somehow-somehow, I wish that I had killed you."

"What for? to cut off a few days of animalism-to make of me an eternal nothing? That wouldn't have done any good."

"It would have prevented the misery-"

Goyle stopped him with a snap of his fingers. "For how long? For a minute. It will all pass away. Be cheerful, now. We haven't any money as a reward of our enterprise and art, but we have let the life blood out of all suspicion attaching to us. Let us go to bed."

"You go to bed. I will lie on the floor."

"No use to put yourself out, George. I'll lie on the floor."

"No," said Bodney, and Goyle let him have his way. The hours passed, Bodney lying in a restless stupor, but Goyle slept. Sunlight poured into the room and Bodney got up. He went to the window and stood to cool his face in the fresh air. He looked back at the bed. Goyle was still sleeping, breathing gently. The horror of the night came in a rush. And there was the cause of it, sleeping in peace. Bodney snatched open a drawer and seized a razor. Goyle turned over, with his face toward the window.

"Ah, up? What time is it, George?"

Bodney dropped the razor and sat down. "It is time to get up," he said. Goyle got out of bed and began to exercise himself by striking out with his fists. He had passed, he said, a night of delicious rest, with not a dream to disturb him. He whistled merrily as he dressed himself. Bodney stood with his elbow resting on the marble top of the "bureau," his face yellow and haggard. Glancing down into the half closed drawer, he saw the razor and shuddered at the sight of it. With his left hand he felt of his right arm, gripping it from shoulder down to wrist as if in some strange manner it had been deprived of strength. Goyle moved toward him and he pushed against the drawer to close it, but the keen eye of the "artist" fell upon the open razor, and glittered like the eye of a snake. But he showed no sign of fear or even of resentment.

"I will stay to breakfast with you," he said, putting his hand on Bodney's shoulder.

"I wish you wouldn't," Bodney feebly replied.

"Oh, no you don't. Come, brace up now. My part of the work is done, but yours is just beginning. I have saved you from suspicion, but you must keep yourself saved. That's right, brighten up. Now you are beginning to look like yourself. Why, nothing so very bad has been done. We have enacted a little drama, that's all. Such things, or things on a par with them, are enacted every day. The newspapers are full of stranger things. We haven't hired a 'castle' and entered upon a career of wholesale murder; we haven't cut up a woman and made her into sausage."

The voice of William was heard in the passage, scolding a housemaid for disturbing his papers. The old man tapped on the door and Goyle opened it.

"Ah, you here?" said the old man, stepping into the room. "You'd better go in to breakfast. Well, sir, I never saw anything like it in my life. I can't put a thing down and find it where I left it. George, what's the matter with you this morning?"

"Nothing at all, sir. I had a headache and didn't sleep very well. That's all. Is the Judge up yet?"

"I believe not. And when he does get up I want to have a talk with him. I'll be hanged if he didn't get that preacher to laughing at me last night-laughing at me right here in my own house. I can stand a good deal, but when a preacher laughs at me, why things have gone too far."

Goyle smiled upon him. "But, Mr. Elbridge, a preacher means quite as little when he laughs as when he talks."

This pleased the old man, and he chuckled, his fat sides shaking. Bodney smiled, too, and Goyle gave him a look of approval and it appeared to brighten him. He dressed himself hastily, turning occasionally to heed a remark made by Goyle or the old man, and when he stepped out of the room to go with them to breakfast, his face was not so yellow, nor his countenance so haggard.