"it's Edgar Crandall. You'll take pleasure from
what I've got to tell."

The key slipped into its place and the bolt shot
back... Well, he was home. No other thought,
no other consciousness, lingered in his mind; even
the pain, the unsupportable white core of suffering
in his brain, was dulled. He placed his foot upon the
threshold, but the hand upon his shoulder arrested
him:

"Greenstream's going to have a bank," the voice
triumphantly declared; "it's settled -- part outside
capital, part guaranteed right here. Paper shaving,
robbery, finished... lawful rate... chance--"

It was no more to Gordon Makimmon than the
crackling of the forest branches, no more than an
inexplicable hindrance to a desired consummation.

"If it hadn't been for you, what you did for me
...others... new courage, example of bigness
-- Why!, what's the matter with you, Makimmon?
That's blood."

Gordon made a tremendous effort of will, of grim
concentration. He freed himself from the detaining
hand. "Moment," he pronounced. The single
word was expelled as dryly, as lifelessly, as a projectile,
from a throat insensate as the barrel of a
gun. He vanished into the bitterly cold house.

The bare floors echoed to his plodding footsteps
as he entered the bedroom beyond the dismantled

[[367]]

p366 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p367w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p368

v?