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Updated: July 13, 2025
"What is it you wish to say to me, Rhodo?" she asked. "What I have to say is for your ears only," was the low reply. "I will go," said Ingolby. "But is it a time for talk?" He made a motion towards the dead man. "There are things to be said which can only be said now, and things to be done which can only be done according to what is said now," grimly remarked Rhodo.
Ingolby was in a state which was neither sleep nor waking, which was in part delirium, in part oblivion to all things in the world save one an obsession so complete, that he moved automatically through the street in which he lived towards that which led to the bridge.
To the mind of Ingolby came a hundred such reasons for breaking out of life's enclosure, as the effect of the opiate Rockwell had given him wore off, and he regained consciousness. As he did so, someone in the room was telling of that intervention of Gabriel Druse and the Monseigneur at the Orange funeral, which had saved the situation.
"Not since" she was going to say not since the morning her father had passed the sentence of the patrin upon him; but she paused in time. "Not since everything happened to you," she added presently. "He knows the game is up," Ingolby remarked with forced cheerfulness. "He won't be asking for any more."
"I came to get what belonged to me." Ingolby laughed ironically. "Most of us are here for that purpose. We think the world owes us such a lot." "I know what is my own." Ingolby lit his pipe, his eyes reflectively scanning the other. "Have you got it again out here your own?" "Not yet, but I will." Ingolby took out his watch, and looked at it.
"Of course, Ingolby is ambitious and he wants power. He tries to do the big things in the world because there is the big thing to do for sure. Without such men the big things are never done, and other men have less work to do, and less money and poorer homes. They discover and construct and design and invent and organize and give opportunities. I am a working man, but I know what Ingolby thinks.
"Any telegrams for me?" he asked. There was an instant's hesitation. They had had no instructions on this point, and they hardly knew what to say; but Jim's mind had its own logic, and the truth seemed best to him now. He answered that there were several wires, but that they "didn't amount to nothin'." "Have they been opened?" Ingolby asked with a frown, half-raising himself.
Another thought, however, was working and fighting in her that Marchand was better as a friend than an enemy; and that while Ingolby's fate was in the balance, while yet the Orange funeral had not taken place and the strikes had not yet come, it might be that he could be won over to Ingolby.
Ingolby had a will of his own, but it had never been really tried against a woman's will. It was, however, tried sorely when Fleda came to consciousness again in his arms and realized that a man's face was nearer to hers than any man's had ever been except that of her own father.
"Ingolby steady there, Ingolby!" he called. "Steady! Steady! Gabriel Druse is here. It's all right." At the first sound of Druse's voice the two wreckers turned and ran. As they did so, Ingolby's hands fell to his side, and he staggered forward. "Druse Fleda," he murmured, then swayed, trembled and fell. With words that stuck in his throat Gabriel Druse stooped and lifted him up in his arms.
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