The pretty room was as it was before.
Pale sunshine still flickered on the swelling curtain. The leather
desk-clock gayly ticked the passing seconds. The young man's clean-cut
face looked as quiet as ever.
Upon Queed the old man fastened his fearless black eyes.
"I meant to tell you all this some day," he said, in quite a natural
voice. "Now the day has come a little sooner than I had meant--that is
all. I know that my confidence is safe with you--till I die."
"I think you have nothing to fear by trusting me," said Queed, and added
at once: "But you need tell me nothing unless you prefer."
A kind of softness shone for a moment in Surface's eyes. "Nobody could
look at your face," he said gently, "and ever be afraid to trust you."
The telephone rang, and Queed could answer it by merely putting out his
hand. It was West, from the office, asking that he report for work that
night, as he himself was compelled to be away.
Presently Surface began talking; talking in snatches, more to himself
than to his young friend, rambling backward over his broken life in
passionate reminiscence.
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