Checked in his luggage, if not precisely pinned openly upon his sleeve,
Blount had brought with him from the scholastic banks of the Charles a
choice assortment of ideals, which are things precious only as they can
be preserved inviolate. But for weeks, endless weeks as they seemed to
him in the retrospect, he had been rubbing shoulders with a crude world
which appeared to care little for ideals and less for the man who upheld
them. Inevitably, as he had admitted to Gantry, the change was wrought,
or working; the exclamation springing to his lips when he recognized
Gryson evinced it, and when he beckoned the shifty intruder to the chair
at the desk end the ruthless _zeitgeist_ had taken full possession of
him, and the thought uppermost had grown suddenly indifferent to the
means if by their employment the end might be gained.
"Come over here and sit down," he commanded; then, seeing that Gryson
hesitated and flung a glance over his shoulder at the door: "What are
you afraid of?"
"They've got my number," said the ward-heeler, in a convict whisper
which was little more than a facial contortion. "There's a couple o'
bulls waitin' f'r me down on the sidewalk."
Blount crossed the room, shut the door and locked it. Then he went back
to the self-confessed fugitive.
"You're safe for the time being," he told the man.
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