The cab driver, his labour upon the buckle finished, was resting on his box with the purposeful and luxurious rest of a man who has borne the heat and burden of the day.  Sabre waved his stick at him, and shouted to him, “Fortune’s office in Tidborough.  Hard as you can.  Hard as you can.”  He wrenched open the door and got in.  In a moment, the startled horse scarcely put into motion by its startled driver, he put his head and arm from the window and was out on the step.  “Stop!  Stop!  Let me out.  I’ve something to get.”

He ran again into the house and bundled himself up the stairs and into his room.  At his bureau he took a drawer and wrenched it open so that it came out in his hand, swung on the sockets of its handle, and scattered its contents upon the floor.  One article fell heavily.  His service revolver.  He grabbed it up and dropped on his hands and knees, padding eagerly about after scattered cartridges.  As he searched his voice went harshly, “He’s hounded me to hell.  At the very gates of hell I’ve got him, got him, and I’ll have him by the throat and hurl him in!” He broke open the breech and jammed the cartridges in, counting them, “One, two, three, four, five, six!” He sapped up the breech and jammed the revolver in his jacket pocket.  He went scrambling again down the stairs, and as he scrambled down he cried, “I’ll cram the letter down his throat.  I’ll take him by the neck.  I’ll bash him across the face.  And I’ll cram the letter down his throat.  When he’s sprawling, when he’s looking, perhaps I’ll out with my gun and drill him, drill him for the dog, the dog that he is.”

All the way down as the cab proceeded, he alternated between shouted behests to the driver to hurry and repetition of his ferocious intention.  Over and over again; gritting his teeth upon it; picturing it; in vision acting it so that the perspiration streamed upon his body.  “I’ll cram the letter down his throat.  I’ll take him by the neck.  I’ll bash him across the face, and I’ll cram the letter down his throat.”  Over and over again; visioning it; in his mind, and with all his muscles working, ferociously performing it.  He felt immensely well.  He felt enormously fit.  The knocking was done in his brain.  His mind was tingling clear.  “I’ll cram ...  I’ll take ...  I’ll bash ...  I’ll cram the letter down his throat.”

He was arrived!  He was here!  “Into my hands!  Into my hands.”  He passed into the office and swiftly as he could go up the stairs.  He encountered no one.  He came to Twyning’s door and put his hand upon the latch.  Immediately, and enormously, so that for a moment he was forced to pause, the pulse broke out anew in his head.  Knock, knock, knock.  Knock, knock, knock.  Curse the thing!  Never mind.  In!  In!  At him!  At him!

He went in.

III

On his right, as he entered, a fire was burning in the grate and it struck him, with the inconsequent insistence of trifles in enormous issues, how chilly for the time of year the day had been and how icily cold his own house.  On the left, at the far end of the room, Twyning sat at his desk.  He was crouched at his desk.  His head was buried in his hands.  At his elbows, vivid upon the black expanse of the table, lay a torn envelope, dull red.