Waterall spoke. ‘What on earth induced you, Benyon, to run the risk of coming to London, where every second man you meet is a New Yorker, I can’t understand. The chances were two to one that you would be recognized. You made a pretty big splash with that little affair of yours five years ago.’
Benyon raised his head. His hands were trembling.
‘I’ll tell you,’ he said with a kind of savage force, which hurt kindly little Mr Birdsey like a blow. ‘It was because I was a dead man, and saw a chance of coming to life for a day; because I was sick of the damned tomb I’ve been living in for five centuries; because I’ve been aching for New York ever since I’ve left it—and here was a chance of being back there for a few hours. I knew there was a risk. I took a chance on it. Well?’
Mr Birdsey’s heart was almost too full for words. He had found him at last, the Super-Fan, the man who would go through fire and water for a sight of a game of baseball. Till that moment he had been regarding himself as the nearest approach to that dizzy eminence. He had braved great perils to see this game. Even in this moment his mind would not wholly detach itself from speculation as to what his wife would say to him when he slunk back into the fold. But what had he risked compared with this man Benyon? Mr Birdsey glowed. He could not restrain his sympathy and admiration. True, the man was a criminal. He had robbed a bank of a hundred thousand dollars. But, after all, what was that? They would probably have wasted the money in foolishness. And, anyway, a bank which couldn’t take care of its money deserved to lose it.
Mr Birdsey felt almost a righteous glow of indignation against the New Asiatic Bank.
He broke the silence which had followed Benyon’s words with a peculiarly immoral remark:
‘Well, it’s lucky it’s only us that’s recognized you,’ he said.
Waterall stared. ‘Are you proposing that we should hush this thing up, Mr Birdsey?’ he said coldly.
‘Oh, well—’
Waterall rose and went to the telephone.
‘What ate you going to do?’
‘Call up Scotland Yard, of course. What did you think?’
Undoubtedly the young man was doing his duty as a citizen, yet it is to be recorded that Mr Birdsey eyed him with unmixed horror.
‘You can’t! You mustn’t!’ he cried.
‘I certainly shall.’
‘But—but—this fellow came all that way to see the ball-game.’
It seemed incredible to Mr Birdsey that this aspect of the affair should not be the one to strike everybody to the exclusion of all other aspects.
‘You can’t give him up. It’s too raw.’
‘He’s a convicted criminal.’
‘He’s a fan. Why, say, he’s
Waterall shrugged his shoulders, and walked to the telephone. Benyon spoke.
‘One moment.’
Waterall turned, and found himself looking into the muzzle of a small pistol. He laughed.
‘I expected that. Wave it about all you want’
Benyon rested his shaking hand on the edge of the table.
‘I’ll shoot if you move.’
‘You won’t. You haven’t the nerve. There’s nothing to you. You’re just a cheap crook, and that’s all. You wouldn’t find the nerve to pull that trigger in a million years.’
He took off the receiver.
‘Give me Scotland Yard,’ he said.
He had turned his back to Benyon. Benyon sat motionless. Then, with a thud, the pistol fell to the ground. The next moment Benyon had broken down. His face was buried in his arms, and he was a wreck of a man, sobbing like a hurt child.
Mr Birdsey was profoundly distressed. He sat tingling and helpless. This was a nightmare.
Waterall’s level voice spoke at the telephone.
‘Is this Scotland Yard? I am Waterall, of the
He hung up the receiver. Benyon sprang to his feet. He stood, shaking, a pitiable sight. Mr Birdsey had risen with him. They stood looking at Waterall.
‘You—skunk!’ said Mr Birdsey.
‘I’m an American citizen,’ said Waterall, ‘and I happen to have some idea of a citizen’s duties. What is more, I’m a newspaper man, and I have some idea of my duty to my paper. Call me what you like, you won’t alter that.’
Mr Birdsey snorted.
