In every human life there is at some time a supreme moment, a tragic climax of events; and Sidwell realized that for him this moment had arrived. Moreover, it had found him helpless and unprepared. Artificial to the bone, he was fundamentally disqualified to meet such an emergency; for artifice or subterfuge would not serve him now. One hasty glance into that relentless face caused him to turn his own away. Long ago, in the West, he had once seen a rustler hung by a posse of ranchers. The inexorable expression he remembered on the surrounding faces was mirrored in Ben Blair's. His brain whirled; he could not think. His hand passed aimlessly over his face; he started to speak, but his voice failed him.
Ben Blair shifted forward in his seat. The long sinewy fingers gripped the chair like a panther ready to spring.
"I am listening," he admonished.
Sidwell felt the air of the room grow stifling. A big clock was ticking on the wall, and it seemed to him the second-beats were minutes apart. His downcast eyes just caught the shape of the hands opposite him, and in fancy he felt them already tightening upon his throat. Like a drowning man, scenes in his past life swarmed through his brain. He saw his mother, his sisters, at home in the old family mansion; his friends at the club, chatting, laughing, drinking, smoking. In an impersonal sort of way he wondered how they would feel, what they would say, when they heard. On the vision swept. It was Florence Baker he saw now--Florence, all in fleecy white; the girl and himself were on the broad veranda of the Baker home. They were not alone. Another figure--yes, this same menacing figure now so near--was on the walk below them, his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, but leaving. Florence was speaking; a smile was upon her lips.
Like a flash of lightning the images of fancy passed, the present returned. At last came the solution once before suggested,--the back-fire! Sidwell straightened, every nerve in his body tense. He spoke--and scarcely recognized his own voice.
"There is a reason," he said, "a very adequate reason, one which concerns another more than it does us." With a supreme effort of will the man met the blue eyes of his opponent squarely. "It is because Florence Baker loves me and doesn't love you. Because she would never forgive you, never, if you did--what you think of doing now."
For an instant the listening figure remained tense, and it seemed to Sidwell that his own pulse ceased beating; then the long sinewy body collapsed as under a physical blow.