"
Surface appeared suddenly to agree with him. He fell back into his chair
and dropped his face into his hands.
Queed, standing where he was, watched him across the tiny dinner-table
and, against his reason, felt very sorry. How humiliating this ripping
up of old dishonor was to the proud old man, rogue though he was, he
understood well enough. From nobody in the world but him, he knew, would
Surface ever have suffered it to proceed as far as this, and this
knowledge made him want to handle the knife with as little roughness as
possible.
"I--was wrong," said the muffled voice. "I ask your forgiveness for my
outbreak."
"You have it."
Surface straightened himself up, and, by an obvious effort, managed to
recapture something like his usual smoothness of voice and manner.
"Will you be good enough to sit down? I will tell you what you wish."
"Certainly. Thank you."
Queed resumed his seat. His face was a little pale, but otherwise just
as usual. Inwardly, after the moment of critical uncertainty, he was
shaken by a tempest of fierce exultation. His club, after all, was going
to be strong enough; the old man would give up the money rather than
give up him.
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