Harold MacGrath

“ The cab wheeled into Broadway, out of quiet into noise. A block or two in silence.
“I sent them on a wild goose chase. To get into the apartment was simple; the safe was nothing. You know my hobby, insane as it is. I hurt my hand in getting through the transom. Do you care to know what was in the box? A packet of letters. One mad day I sent them back; and now one mad night I go like a thief and recover them. You will say that I should have gone to her and asked. I know her. I know myself. Pride or stubbornness, call it what you will.” ”

“ Take care of yourself; travel a little; don't stick here time without end. It'll drive you mad some day. Good-hy. Come, Forbes.”
The tableau always remained vivid in Forbes' mind: the young woman, her disordered hair, the white throat, Crawford's haggard eyes.
Once more in the cab, he found speech. “In God's name, what's this, Crawford? You, with a second establishment?”
“Think so? Mort, I love truth for its own sake; it's part of the pride in my blood. She is nothing to me, never has been. A bit of loyalty to the dead. My nurse's daughter, foolish and romantic. And a man I trusted.... ”

“ The iron nerve of the man, to have taken such risks! And playing poker all that time, as cool as you please! It took a deal of control not to whirl upon Crawford and accuse him pointblank.
“Forbes, I have never wronged a soul in this world; I have never done anything I'm ashamed of. ”