"Yes," said Abner, "that is what I mean. I shall dismiss this suit."
"Abner," the other wailed, "this is ruin—these lands—these rich lands!" And he put out his arms, as toward something that one loves. "I have been a fool. Give me back my paper." Abner arose.
"Dillworth," he said, "you have a short memory. You said that a man ought to suffer for his lack of care, and you shall suffer for yours. You said that pity was fantastic, and I find it fantastic now. You said that you would take what the law gives you; well, so shall I."
The sniveling creature rocked his big body grotesquely in his chair.
"Abner," he whined, "why did you come here to ruin me?"
"I did not come to ruin you," said Abner. "I came to save you. But for me you would have done a murder."
"Abner," the man cried, "you are mad. Why should I do a murder?"
"Dillworth," replied Abner, "there is a certain commandment prohibited, not because of the evil in it, but because of the thing it leads to—because there follows it—I use your own name, Dillworth, 'hell's work.' This afternoon you tried to kill Lemuel Arnold from an ambush."
Terror was on the man. He ceased to rock his body. He leaned forward, staring at Abner, the muscles of his face flabby.
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