"What is it?" appealed Banneker. "What's happened? Tell me."
"Willis Enderby is dead."
The query, which forced itself from Banneker's lips, was a
self-accusation. "By his own hand?"
"By yours," answered Edmonds, and strode from the place.
Groping, Banneker's fingers encountered a bottle, closed about it, drew
it in. He poured and drank. He thought it wine. Not until the reeking
stab of brandy struck to his brain did he realize the error.... All
right. Brandy. He needed it. He was going to make a speech. What speech?
How did it begin.... What was this that Marrineal was saying? "In view
of the tragic news.... Call off the speech-making?" Not at all! He,
Banneker, must have his chance. He could explain everything.
Brilliantly, convincingly to his own mind, he began. It was all right;
only the words in their eagerness to set forth the purity of his
motives, the unimpeachable rectitude of his standards, became confused.
Somebody was plucking at his arm. Ives? All right? Ives was a good
fellow, after all.... Yes: he'd go home--with Ives. Ives would
understand.
All the way back to The House With Three Eyes he explained himself; any
fair-minded man would see that he had done his best. Ives was
fair-minded; he saw it.
Pages:
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764