dabbled, hectic spots. His hand trembled, too, so that some of the water
from the vase he was holding spilled over on the desk. It was probably
this small accident, making him forget the importance of his rôle, that
caused him to jump up nervously and begin pacing about the room.

Davenant noticed then what he had not yet had time for--the change that
had taken place in Guion in less than twenty hours. It could not be
defined as looking older or haggard or ill. It could hardly be said to
be a difference in complexion or feature or anything outward. As far as
Davenant was able to judge, it was probably due, not to the loss of
self-respect, but to the loss of the pretense at self-respect; it was
due to that desolation of the personality that comes when the soul has
no more reason to keep up its defenses against the world outside it,
when the Beautiful Gate is battered down and the Veil of the Temple
rent, while the Holy of Holies lies open for any eye to rifle. It was
probably because this was so that Guion, on coming back to his seat,
began at once to be more explanatory than there was any need for.

"I haven't tried to thank you for your kind suggestion, but we'll come
to that when I see more clearly just what you want."

"I've told you that. I'm not asking for anything else."

"So far you haven't asked for anything at all; but I don't imagine
you'll be content with that. In any case," he hurried on, as Davenant
seemed about to speak, "I don't want you to be under any misapprehension
about the affair. There's nothing extenuating in it whatever--that is,
nothing but the intention to 'put it back' that goes with practically
every instance of"--he hesitated long--"every instance of embezzlement,"
he finished, bravely. "It began this way--"