"What the deuce do you mean, O'Reilly? You keep suggesting things, but
that is all. Talk plain if you know anything."
"I don't know anything," impassively; "unless it is that I wouldn't be
in your shoes if I got a dollar for every cent you've made out of this
cursed business."
Bit by bit Craig's face whitened. If anything the air of conciliation
augmented.
"You think circumstances weren't to blame?" he queried. "That, in other
words, I've brought things about as they are deliberately?"
"I don't think anything. I know what you've done--and what you've got to
answer for."
Instinctively, almost with a shudder, Craig glanced about him.
The shade of the single window was up, and of a sudden he arose
unsteadily and drew it over the blackness outside with a jerk.
"You're beastly hard on me," he commented, "but let that pass. It's
probably the last time we'll ever see each other, and we may as well
part friends." He was back in his place again with the flask before him,
and with a propitiatory motion he extended the liquor toward the other
man. "Come, let's forget it," he insinuated. "Have a drink with me."
"Not a drop."
"Not if I requested it?"
"Not if you got down on your knees and begged."
"All right." The hand was withdrawn with a nervous little laugh. "I'll
have to spoil it all myself, then."
The Irishman watched in silence while the other gulped down swallow
after swallow.
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