It was when he returned from his disturbed stroll about the streets, after receiving the decisive note from McGregor, James and Hay, that Hurstwood found the letter Carrie had written him that morning. He thrilled intensely as he noted the handwriting, and rapidly tore it open.
"Then," he thought, "she loves me or she would not have written to me at all."
He was slightly depressed at the tenor of the note for the first few minutes, but soon recovered. "She wouldn't write at all if she didn't care for me."
This was his one resource against the depression which held him. He could extract little from the wording of the letter, but the spirit he thought he knew.
There was really something exceedingly human -- if not pathetic -- in his being thus relieved by a clearly worded reproof. He who had for so long remained satisfied with himself now looked outside of himself for comfort -- and to such a source. The mystic cords of affection！ How they bind us all.
The colour came to his cheeks. For the moment he forgot the letter from McGregor, James and Hay. If he could only have Carrie, perhaps he could get out of the whole entanglement -- perhaps it would not matter. He wouldn't care what his wife did with herself if only he might not lose Carrie. He stood up and walked about, dreaming his delightful dream of a life continued with this lovely possessor of his heart.
It was not long, however, before the old worry was back for consideration, and with it what weariness！ He thought of the morrow and the suit. He had done nothing, and here was the afternoon slipping away. It was now a quarter of four. At five the attorneys would have gone home. He still had the morrow until noon. Even as he thought, the last fifteen minutes passed away and it was five. Then he abandoned the thought of seeing them any more that day and turned to Carrie.
It is to be observed that the man did not justify himself to himself. He was not troubling about that. His whole thought was the possibility of persuading Carrie. Nothing was wrong in that. He loved her dearly. Their mutual happiness depended upon it. Would that Drouet were only away！
While he was thinking thus elatedly, he remembered that he wanted some clean linen in the morning.
This he purchased, together with a half-dozen ties, and went to the Palmer House. As he entered he thought he saw Drouet ascending the stairs with a key. Surely not Drouet！ Then he thought, perhaps they had changed their abode temporarily. He went straight up to the desk.
"Is Mr. Drouet stopping here?" he asked of the clerk.
"I think he is," said the latter, consulting his private registry list. "Yes."
"Is that so?" exclaimed Hurstwood, otherwise concealing his astonishment. "Alone?" he added.
"Yes," said the clerk.
Hurstwood turned away and set his lips so as best to express and conceal his feelings.
"How's that?" he thought. "They've had a row."
He hastened to his room with rising spirits and changed his linen. As he did so, he made up his mind that if Carrie was alone, or if she had gone to another place, it behooved him to find out. He decided to call at once.
"I know what I'll do," he thought. "I'll go to the door and ask if Mr. Drouet is at home. That will bring out whether he is there or not and where Carrie is."
He was almost moved to some muscular display as he thought of it. He decided to go immediately after supper.
On coming down from his room at six, he looked carefully about to see if Drouet was present and then went out to lunch. He could scarcely eat, however, he was so anxious to be about his errand. Before starting he thought it well to discover where Drouet would be, and returned to his hotel.
"Has Mr. Drouet gone out?" he asked of the clerk.
"No," answered the latter, "he's in his room. Do you wish to send up a card?"
"No, I'll call around later," answered Hurstwood, and strolled out.
He took a Madison car and went direct to Ogden Place, this time walking boldly up to the door. The chambermaid answered his knock.
"Is Mr. Drouet in?" said Hurstwood blandly.
"He is out of the city," said the girl, who had heard Carrie tell this to Mrs. Hale.
"Is Mrs. Drouet in?"
"No, she has gone to the theatre."
"Is that so?" said Hurstwood, considerably taken back; then, as if burdened with something important, "You don't know to which theatre?"
The girl really had no idea where she had gone, but not liking Hurstwood, and wishing to cause him trouble, answered: "Yes, Hooley's."
"Thank you," returned the manager, and tipping his hat slightly, went away.
"I'll look in at Hooley's," thought he, but as a matter of fact he did not. Before he had reached the central portion of the city he thought the whole matter over and decided it would be useless. As much as he longed to see Carrie, he knew she would be with some one and did not wish to intrude with his plea there. A little later he might do so -- in the morning. Only in the morning he had the lawyer question before him.
This little pilgrimage threw quite a wet blanket upon his rising spirits. He was soon down again to his old worry, and reached the resort anxious to find relief. Quite a company of gentlemen were making the place lively with their conversation. A group of Cook County politicians were conferring about a round cherry-wood table in the rear portion of the room. Several young merry-makers were chattering at the bar before making a belated visit to the theatre. A shabbily-genteel individual, with a red nose and an old high hat, was sipping a quiet glass of ale alone at one end of the bar. Hurstwood nodded to the politicians and went into his office.
About ten o'clock a friend of his, Mr. Frank L. Taintor, a local sport and racing man, dropped in, and seeing Hurstwood alone in his office came to the door.
"Hello, George！" he exclaimed.
"How are you, Frank?" said Hurstwood, somewhat relieved by the sight of him. "Sit down," and he motioned him to one of the chairs in the little room.
"What's the matter, George?" asked Taintor. "You look a little glum. Haven't lost at the track, have you?"
"I'm not feeling very well to-night. I had a slight cold the other day."
"Take whiskey, George," said Taintor. "You ought to know that."
Hurstwood smiled.
While they were still conferring there, several other of Hurstwood's friends entered, and not long after eleven, the theatres being out, some actors began to drop in -- among them some notabilities.
Then began one of those pointless social conversations so common in America resorts where the would-be gilded attempt to rub off gilt from those who have it in abundance. If Hurstwood had one leaning, it was toward notabilities. He considered that, if anywhere, he belonged among them. He was too proud to toady, too keen not to strictly observe the plane he occupied when there were those present who did not appreciate him, but, in situations like the present, where he could shine as a gentleman and be received without equivocation as a friend and equal among men of known ability, he was most delighted. It was on such occasions, if ever, that he would "take something." When the social flavour was strong enough he would even unbend to the extent of drinking glass for glass with his associates, punctiliously observing his turn to pay as if he were an outsider like the others. If he ever approached intoxication -- or rather that ruddy warmth and comfortableness which precedes the more sloven state -- it was when individuals such as these were gathered about him, when he was one of a circle of chatting celebrities. To-night, disturbed as was his state, he was rather relieved to find company, and now that notabilities were gathered, he laid aside his troubles for the nonce, and joined in right heartily.
It was not long before the imbibing began to tell. Stories began to crop up -- those ever-enduring, droll stories which form the major portion of the conversation among American men under such circumstances.
Twelve o'clock arrived, the hour for closing, and with it the company took leave. Hurstwood shook hands with them most cordially. He was very roseate physically. He had arrived at that state where his mind, though clear, was, nevertheless, warm in its fancies. He felt as if his troubles were not very serious. Going into his office, he began to turn over certain accounts, awaiting the departure of the bartenders and the cashier, who soon left.
It was the manager's duty, as well as his custom, after all were gone to see that everything was safely closed up for the night. As a rule, no money except the cash taken in after banking hours was kept about the place, and that was locked in the safe by the cashier, who, with the owners, was joint keeper of the secret combination, but, nevertheless, Hurstwood nightly took the precaution to try the cash drawers and the safe in order to see that they were tightly closed. Then he would lock his own little office and set the proper light burning near the safe, after which he would take his departure.
Never in his experience had he found anything out of order, but to-night, after shutting down his desk, he came out and tried the safe. His way was to give a sharp pull. This time the door responded. He was slightly surprised at that, and looking in found the money cases as left for the day, apparently unprotected. His first thought was, of course, to inspect the drawers and shut the door.
"I'll speak to Mayhew about this to-morrow," he thought.
The latter had certainly imagined upon going out a half-hour before that he had turned the knob on the door so as to spring the lock. He had never failed to do so before. But to-night Mayhew had other thoughts. He had been revolving the problem of a business of his own.
"I'll look in here," thought the manager, pulling out the money drawers. He did not know why he wished to look in there. It was quite a superfluous action, which another time might not have happened at all.
As he did so, a layer of bills, in parcels of a thousand, such as banks issue, caught his eye. He could not tell how much they represented, but paused to view them. Then he pulled out the second of the cash drawers. In that were the receipts of the day.
"I didn't know Fitzgerald and Moy ever left any money this way," his mind said to itself. "They must have forgotten it."
He looked at the other drawer and paused again.
"Count them," said a voice in his ear.
He put his hand into the first of the boxes and lifted the stack, letting the separate parcels fall. They were bills of fifty and one hundred dollars done in packages of a thousand. He thought he counted ten such.
"Why don't I shut the safe?" his mind said to itself, lingering. "What makes me pause here?"
For answer there came the strangest words:
"Did you ever have ten thousand dollars in ready money?"
Lo, the manager remembered that he had never had so much. All his property had been slowly accumulated, and now his wife owned that. He was worth more than forty thousand, all told -- but she would get that.
He puzzled as he thought of these things, then pushed in the drawers and closed the door, pausing with his hand upon the knob, which might so easily lock it all beyond temptation. Still he paused. Finally he went to the windows and pulled down the curtains. Then he tried the door, which he had previously locked. What was this thing, making him suspicious? Why did he wish to move about so quietly. He came back to the end of the counter as if to rest his arm and think. Then he went and unlocked his little office door and turned on the light. He also opened his desk, sitting down before it, only to think strange thoughts.
"The safe is open," said a voice. "There is just the least little crack in it. The lock has not been sprung."
The manager floundered among a jumble of thoughts. Now all the entanglement of the day came back. Also the thought that here was a solution. That money would do it. If he had that and Carrie. He rose up and stood stock-still, looking at the floor.
"What about it?" his mind asked, and for answer he put his hand slowly up and scratched his head.
The manager was no fool to be led blindly away by such an errant proposition as this, but his situation was peculiar. Wine was in his veins. It had crept up into his head and given him a warm view of the situation. It also coloured the possibilities of ten thousand for him. He could see great opportunities with that. He could get Carrie. Oh, yes, he could！ He could get rid of his wife. That letter, too, was waiting discussion to-morrow morning. He would not need to answer that. He went back to the safe and put his hand on the knob. Then he pulled the door open and took the drawer with the money quite out.
With it once out and before him, it seemed a foolish thing to think about leaving it. Certainly it would. Why, he could live quietly with Carrie for years.
Lord！ what was that? For the first time he was tense, as if a stern hand had been laid upon his shoulder. He looked fearfully around. Not a soul was present. Not a sound. Some one was shuffling by on the sidewalk. He took the box and the money and put it back in the safe. Then he partly closed the door again.
To those who have never wavered in conscience, the predicament of the individual whose mind is less strongly constituted and who trembles in the balance between duty and desire is scarcely appreciable, unless graphically portrayed. Those who have never heard that solemn voice of the ghostly clock which ticks with awful distinctness, "thou shalt," "thou shalt not," "thou shalt," "thou shalt not," are in no position to judge. Not alone in sensitive, highly organised natures is such a mental conflict possible. The dullest specimen of humanity, when drawn by desire toward evil, is recalled by a sense of right, which is proportionate in power and strength to his evil tendency. We must remember that it may not be a knowledge of right, for no knowledge of right is predicated of the animal's instinctive recoil at evil. Men are still led by instinct before they are regulated by knowledge. It is instinct which recalls the criminal -- it is instinct （where highly organised reasoning is absent） which gives the criminal his feeling of danger, his fear of wrong.
At every first adventure, then, into some untried evil, the mind wavers. The clock of thought ticks out its wish and its denial. To those who have never experienced such a mental dilemma, the following will appeal on the simple ground of revelation.
When Hurstwood put the money back, his nature again resumed its ease and daring. No one had observed him. He was quite alone. No one could tell what he wished to do. He could work this thing out for himself.
The imbibation of the evening had not yet worn off. Moist as was his brow, tremble as did his hand once after the nameless fright, he was still flushed with the fumes of liquor. He scarcely noticed that the time was passing. He went over his situation once again, his eye always seeing the money in a lump, his mind always seeing what it would do. He strolled into his little room, then to the door, then to the safe again. He put his hand on the knob and opened it. There was the money！ Surely no harm could come from looking at it！
He took out the drawer again and lifted the bills. They were so smooth, so compact, so portable. How little they made, after all. He decided he would take them. Yes, he would. He would put them in his pocket. Then he looked at that and saw they would not go there. His hand satchel！ To be sure, his hand satchel. They would go in that -- all of it would. No one would think anything of it either. He went into the little office and took it from the shelf in the corner. Now he set it upon his desk and went out toward the safe. For some reason he did not want to fill it out in the big room.
First he brought the bills and then the loose receipts of the day. He would take it all. He put the empty drawers back and pushed the iron door almost to, then stood beside it meditating.
The wavering of a mind under such circumstances is an almost inexplicable thing, and yet it is absolutely true. Hurstwood could not bring himself to act definitely. He wanted to think about it -- to ponder over it, to decide whether it were best. He was drawn by such a keen desire for Carrie, driven by such a state of turmoil in his own affairs that he thought constantly it would be best, and yet he wavered. He did not know what evil might result from it to him -- how soon he might come to grief. The true ethics of the situation never once occurred to him, and never would have, under any circumstances.
After he had all the money in the hand bag, a revulsion of feeling seized him. He would not do it -- no！ Think of what a scandal it would make. The police！ They would be after him. He would have to fly, and where? Oh, the terror of being a fugitive from justice！ He took out the two boxes and put all the money back. In his excitement he forgot what he was doing, and put the sums in the wrong boxes. As he pushed the door to, he thought he remembered doing it wrong and opened the door again. There were the two boxes mixed.
He took them out and straightened the matter, but now the terror had gone. Why be afraid?
While the money was in his hand the lock clicked. It had sprung！ Did he do it? He grabbed at the knob and pulled vigorously. It had closed. Heavens！ he was in for it now, sure enough.
The moment he realised that the safe was locked for a surety, the sweat burst out upon his brow and he trembled violently. He looked about him and decided instantly. There was no delaying now.
"Supposing I do lay it on the top," he said, "and go away, they'll know who took it. I'm the last to close up. Besides, other things will happen."
At once he became the man of action.
"I must get out of this," he thought.
He hurried into his little room, took down his light overcoat and hat, locked his desk, and grabbed the satchel. Then he turned out all but one light and opened the door. He tried to put on his old assured air, but it was almost gone. He was repenting rapidly.
"I wish I hadn't done that," he said. "That was a mistake."
He walked steadily down the street, greeting a night watchman whom he knew who was trying doors. He must get out of the city, and that quickly.
"I wonder how the trains run?" he thought.
Instantly he pulled out his watch and looked. It was nearly half-past one.
At the first drug store he stopped, seeing a long-distance telephone booth inside. It was a famous drug store, and contained one of the first private telephone booths ever erected.
"I want to use your 'phone a minute," he said to the night clerk.
The latter nodded.
"Give me 1643," he called to Central, after looking up the Michigan Central depot number. Soon he got the ticket agent.
"How do the trains leave here for Detroit?" he asked.
The man explained the hours.
"No more to-night?"
"Nothing with a sleeper. Yes, there is, too," he added. "There is a mail train out of here at three o'clock."
"All right," said Hurstwood. "What time does that get to Detroit?"
He was thinking if he could only get there and cross the river into Canada, he could take his time about getting to Montreal. He was relieved to learn that it would reach there by noon.
"Mayhew won't open the safe till nine," he thought. "They can't get on my track before noon."
Then he thought of Carrie. With what speed must he get her, if he got her at all. She would have to come along. He jumped into the nearest cab standing by.
"To Ogden Place," he said sharply. "I'll give you a dollar more if you make good time."
The cabby beat his horse into a sort of imitation gallop, which was fairly fast, however. On the way Hurstwood thought what to do. Reaching the number, he hurried up the steps and did not spare the bell in waking the servant.
"Is Mrs. Drouet in?" he asked.
"Yes," said the astonished girl.
"Tell her to dress and come to the door at once. Her husband is in the hospital, injured, and wants to see her."
The servant girl hurried upstairs, convinced by the man's strained and emphatic manner.
"What！" said Carrie, lighting the gas and searching for her clothes.
"Mr. Drouet is hurt and in the hospital. He wants to see you. The cab's downstairs."
Carrie dressed very rapidly, and soon appeared below, forgetting everything save the necessities.
"Drouet is hurt," said Hurstwood quickly. "He wants to see you. Come quickly."
Carrie was so bewildered that she swallowed the whole story.
"Get in," said Hurstwood, helping her and jumping after.
The cabby began to turn the horse around.
"Michigan Central depot," he said, standing up and speaking so low that Carrie could not hear, "as fast as you can go."
赫斯渥收到麦·詹·海事务所的那份明确的通知以后，心烦意乱地上街转了一会儿，然后回到家时，才发现嘉莉那天早晨写给他的信。一看见信封上的笔迹，他激动万分，急忙将信拆开。
“这么说，”他想，“她是爱我的，否则她就压根不会给我写信。”起初几分钟，他对信的内容感到有点沮丧，但很快又振作起来。“若是她心里没我，就决不会写信的。”只有这么想，他才不致于沮丧透顶。从信的措辞上看不出什么，但他自以为能领会信的精神。
明摆着是一封谴责他的信，他竟能从中得到宽慰，倘若不是可悲，也是人性弱点的过份体现。这个一向自足的人，现在竟要从身外找寻安慰，而且是这样一种安慰。多么神奇的爱情绳索！我们谁也挣脱不了。
他的脸上又有了血色。他暂时把麦·詹·海事务所的来信置之脑后。但愿他能得到嘉莉，这样也许他就能摆脱一切纠葛--也许这就无关紧要了。只要不失去嘉莉，他就不在乎他太太要做什么。他站起身来，一边走动，一边做着今后和这个可爱的心上人共同生活的美梦。
可是没过多久，他的思路又回到了老问题上，真让人厌倦！他想到明天和那场诉讼。转眼一个下午就要过去了，他还什么都没做。现在是４点差１刻。５点钟律师们就会回家了。
他还有明天上午的时间。就在他想着这些时，最后１５分钟也过去了，到５点了。于是他不再想当天去见律师的事，而转念去想嘉莉。
值得一提的是，这人并不向自己证明自己是对的。他不屑烦这个神。他一门心思只是想着怎样说服嘉莉。这样做并没错。他很爱她，这是他们两人幸福的基矗杜洛埃这家伙不在就好了！
正当他美滋滋地想着这些时，他想起自己明天早晨没有干净的衬衫可换。
他买来衬衫，还买了半打领带，然后去帕尔默旅馆。进门时，他觉得似乎看见杜洛埃拿着钥匙上了楼。可千万别是杜洛埃！他又一想，也许他们临时换了个地方祝他直接去了柜台。
“杜洛埃先生住这儿吗？”他问帐房。
“我想是的，”帐房说，并查了一下他的旅客登记表。“是的，他住这儿。”“真是这样？”赫斯渥忍不住叫道，虽然他努力掩饰自己的吃惊。“他一个人吗？”他又问。
“是的，”帐房说。
赫斯渥转身走开。他紧闭双唇，尽量掩饰他的感情，可是正是这个举动将他的感情暴露无遗。
“怎么会这样呢？”他想。“他们是吵架了。”他急急忙忙、兴高采烈地去了自己的房间，把衬衫换了。
他在换衣服时暗下决心，不管嘉莉是一个人留在那里，还是去了别的地方，他都应该去弄个明白。他决定马上就去看看。
“我知道该怎么做，”他想。“我走到门口，问一声杜洛埃先生是否在家。这样就能知道他是否在那里以及嘉莉的去向。”他这样想着，兴奋得几乎要手舞足蹈了。他决定一吃完晚饭就去。
６点钟，他从房间下来时，仔细地看了看四周，杜洛埃不在。然后，他出去吃饭。可是他急着去办事，几乎什么也吃不下。动身前，他想最好确定一下杜洛埃此刻在哪里，于是又回到旅馆。
“杜洛埃先生出去了吗？”他问帐房。
“没有，”后者回答。“他在房间里，您想递张名片上去吗？”“不用了，我迟一点去拜访他。”赫斯渥说完就走了出去。
他上了一辆麦迪逊街的有轨电车直奔奥登公寓。这次他大胆地径直走到门口。女仆替他开了门。
“杜洛埃先生在家吗？”赫斯渥和悦地说。
“他出城了，”女仆说，她听到嘉莉是这样告诉海尔太太的。
“杜洛埃太太呢？”
“她不在家，去看戏了。”
“是吗？”赫斯渥说，着实吃了一惊。随后，他做出有要事的样子。“你知道她去了那家戏院？”实际上女仆并不知道她去了哪里，但是她讨厌赫斯渥，存心捉弄他，便答道：“知道，是胡利戏院。”“谢谢，”经理回答，他伸手轻轻地抬了抬帽子便离开了。
“我去胡利戏院找她，”他想，但是他并没有真去。在到达市中心之前，他把整件事情想了一遍，认定去了也没用。虽然他极想看见嘉莉，但是他也知道嘉莉现在有别人作伴，他不想闯去向她求情。晚些时候也行--明天早上吧。只是明天早上他还得去见律师。
这趟路跑得他大为扫兴。他很快又陷入了老烦恼，于是回到酒店，急着找寻安慰。一大群绅士在这地方聊天，很是热闹。
后面的一张樱桃木圆桌旁，围着一群当地的政客在谈着什么事。几个寻欢作乐的年青人，在酒吧边说个没完，去戏院为时已晚却还不想走。酒吧的一头有一个寒酸却又要体面的人，长着红鼻子，戴着顶旧礼帽，在那里安安静静地喝着淡啤酒。赫斯渥向政客们点点头后走进他的办公室。
１０点左右，他的一个朋友，弗兰克·勒·泰恩特先生，当地一个热衷体育和赛马的人，来到这里。看见赫斯渥一个人在办公室里，他走到门口。
“你好，乔治！”他叫道。
“你好吗，弗兰克？”赫斯渥说道，不知怎么看见他觉得轻松了一些。“请坐吧，”他向他指了指小房间里的一把椅子。
“怎么啦，乔治？”泰恩特问道。“你看上去有点不大高兴。
该不是赛马输了吧？”
“我今晚不太舒服。前些日子有点小伤风。”“喝点威士忌，乔治，”泰恩特说，“你该很在行的。”赫斯渥笑了笑。
他们还在那里谈话时，赫斯渥的另外几个朋友进来了。１１点过后不久，戏院散场了，开始有一些演员来到这里--其中还有些名角儿。
接下去便开始了美国娱乐场所最常见的那种毫无意义的社交**谈，那些想成名的人总想从大名人那里沾点光。倘若赫斯渥有什么可倾心的，那就是倾心名流。他认为，若是替他划圈，他属于名流。如果在场的人中有不赏识他的，他很清高，不会去拍这些人的马屁，但他又很热心，依旧严格地履行着自己的职责。但是在像眼前这样的情况下，他就特别高兴。因为在这里他能像个绅士一样光彩照人，人们毫不含糊地把他视作名流的朋友同等看待。而且在这种场合，如果能碰到的话，他就会“喝上几杯”。当社交气氛很浓时，他甚至会放开与朋友们一杯对一杯地喝。轮到他付帐，他也规规矩矩地掏钱，就像他也同其他人一样，是个外来的顾客。如果他也曾差点喝醉过--或者说处于醉酒失态前脸红、发热、浑身舒坦的状态，那就是当他置身于这些人之中，当他也是闲谈的名流中的一份子。今晚，虽然他心绪不佳，但有人作伴他还是很觉宽慰。现在既然名流聚到了一起，他也就将自己的麻烦事暂时搁在一边，尽情地加入他们之中。
很快，喝酒喝得有效果了。大家开始讲故事--那些常讲不厌的滑稽故事，美国男人们在这种情况下谈话的主要内容就是这类故事。
１２点钟，打烊的时间到了，客人们开始离开。赫斯渥十分热忱地和他们握手道别。他浑身舒坦，处于那种头脑清醒，但却充满幻想的状态。他甚至觉得他的那些麻烦事也不那么严重了。他进了办公室，开始翻阅一些帐本，等着堂倌们和出纳离开。他们很快都走了。
等所有的人走后，看看是否每样东西都已锁好，能够安全过夜，这是经理的职责，也成了他的习惯。按照常规，只有银行关门后收的现金才会放在店里，由出纳锁在保险柜内。只有出纳和两位店东知道保险柜的密码。但是赫斯渥很谨慎，每晚都要拉拉放现金的抽屉和保险柜，看看是否都锁好了。然后，他锁上自己的小办公室，开亮保险柜旁的专用灯，这才离开。
他从未发现任何东西出过差错，可是今晚，他锁好自己的写字台后，出来检查保险柜。他检查的方法是用力拉一拉门。
这次他一拉，保险柜的门竟开了。这令他有点吃惊，他朝里看了看，发现装钱的抽屉里像白天那样放着，显然没有收好。他的第一个念头当然是检查一下抽屉并把门关上。
“明天，我要和马休说一下这事，”他想。
马休半小时前离开时，肯定以为自己将门上的锁钮旋到了位，门锁上了。他以前从来都是锁好门的。但今晚马休另有心事，他一直在盘算自己的一笔生意。
“我来看看里面，”经理想着，拉出装钱的抽屉。他不知道自己为什么会想看看里面。这完全是多此一举，换个时间也许就根本不会发生的。
他拉出抽屉，一眼就看见一叠钞票，１０００元一扎，像是从银行取来的原封。他不知道这有多少钱，便停住仔细看看。随后，他拉出第二个现金抽屉，里面装着当天的进款。
“据我所知，费茨杰拉德和莫埃从未这样放过钱，”他心里自言自语。“他们一定是忘了。”他看看另一只抽屉，又停住了。
“数一数，”一个声音在他耳边说。
他把手伸进第一只抽屉，拿起那叠钞票，让他们一扎扎地散落下来。这些钞票有５０元票面和１００元票，一扎有１０００元。他想他数了有十扎这样的钞票。
“我为什么不关上保险柜？”他心里自言自语，迟疑不决。
“是什么使我还呆在这儿？”
回答他的是一句非常奇怪的话。
“你曾有过１万块钱的现钞吗？”
瞧，经理记得他从未有过这么多钱。他的全部财产都是慢慢攒起来的，现在却归他太太所有。他的财产总共价值４万多块--都要成为她的了。
他想着这些，感到困惑。然后他推进抽屉，关上门，手放在锁钮上停住了。这锁钮只消轻轻一旋，就可以将保险柜锁上，也就不再有什么诱惑了。可是他仍旧停在那里。最终，他走到窗边拉下窗帘。他又拉了拉门，在此之前，他已经把门锁上了。
是什么使他这么多疑？他为什么要如此悄悄地走动？他回到柜台的一端，像是要在那里枕着胳膊，好好想一想。然后，他去开了他的小办公室的门，开亮灯。他连写字台都打开了，坐在台前，开始胡思乱想。
“保险柜是开的，”一个声音说。“就差那么一小条缝。锁还没锁上。”经理脑子里一团乱麻。这时，他又想起白天的全部纠葛。
也想到眼前就有条出路。那笔钱就能解决问题。要是既有那钱又有嘉莉该有多好！他站起身来，一动不动地立在那里，眼睛盯着地板。
“这办法怎么样？”他心里问。为找寻答案，他慢慢地抬起手来抓抓头。
经理可不傻，还不至于会盲目地被这样的一念之差引入岐途，但是他今天的情况特殊。他的血管里流着酒。酒劲上了头，使他对眼前的处境有些头脑发热。酒也渲染了一万块钱可能为他带来的好处。他能看见这笔钱为他提供的大好机会。他能够得到嘉莉。啊，他真的能够得到她！他可以摆脱他的太太，还有那封明天早上要谈的信。他也不用给予答复了。他回到保险柜旁，把手放在锁钮上。然后，他拉开门，把装钱的抽屉整个儿拿了出来。
一旦抽屉完全展现在他面前，再想不去动它似乎很愚蠢了。当然愚蠢。嗨，有了这些钱，他可以安安静静地和嘉莉生活很多年。
天哪！怎么回事？他第一次紧张起来，好像一只严厉的手抓住了他的肩膀。他恐惧地看看四周。一个人也没有，一点声音都没有。外面的人行道上有人拖着脚走过。他拿起抽屉和钱，把它放回保险柜。然后，他又将门半掩上。
对于一个意志不够坚强，在责任与欲望之间徘徊不定的人所处的困境，那些良心上从不动摇的人很难理解，除非有人细细地向他们描绘。那些从未听过那内心深处幽灵般的时钟，用庄严的声音滴答滴答清清楚楚地告诉你“你应该”、“你不应该”、“你应该”、“你不应该”的人，根本没有资格对此加以评判。过种思想斗争，不仅那些思维敏捷且很有条理的人会有。
即使那些最愚蠢的人，当欲望驱使他去犯罪时，正义感也会去提醒阻止他，而且犯罪倾向越大，正义感也越强。我们必须记住，这也许并不是对正义的认识，因为动物本能地畏惧罪恶，但并不基于它们对正义有所认识。人在受知识控制之前，仍旧受本能的支配。正是本能在提醒罪犯--正是本能（当不存在很有条理的推理时）使罪犯有了危险感，害怕做错事。
因此，每当人们第一次冒险，去干某种从未干过的罪恶勾当时，心里总会犹豫不决。思想的时钟滴答滴答地表达着欲望和克制。那些从未经历过这种思想困境的人，会喜欢下面的故事，因为它给人以启示。
赫斯渥把钱放回去以后，又恢复了他那从容大胆的气度。
没有人看见他，就他一个人。谁也不知道他想干什么。他可以自己处理好这件事。
晚上的酒劲还没有完全消失。尽管在经历了那阵无名的恐惧后，他额头冒汗，手也发抖，但是他仍旧给酒气弄得满脸通红。他几乎没注意到时间在消逝。他又考虑了一遍自己的处境，眼睛老是看见那些钱，心里老是想着那些钱可派的用常他走进自己的小房间，又回到门口，又来到保险柜旁。他伸手拉住锁钮，打开了保险柜。钱就在里面。看一看总不会有什么害处吧。
他又拿出抽屉，拿起那些钞票。这钞票多么光滑、多么结实、多么便于携带。也就是很小的一包而已。他决定拿走它们。
是的，他要拿。他要把它们装进自己的口袋。他又看看那些钱，觉得口袋装不下。对了，他的手提包！手提包肯定行！那些钱能装下--全都装得下，而且没人会怀疑手提包。他走进小办公室，从墙角的架子上取下手提包。他把包放在写字台上，出来走到保险柜旁。因为某种原因，他不想在外边的大房间里往包里装钱。
他先拿了那些钞票，然后又拿了当天进的散钱。他要全部拿走。他把空抽屉放回去，推上铁门，差一点就关严了，然后站在旁边沉思起来。
在这种情况下，心里的那种犹豫不决，几乎是件不可思议的事，但却是千真万确的。赫斯渥无法让自己果断行事。他要好好想一想--仔细地考虑一下，决定这是否是上策。他这么想要嘉莉，那些乱七八糟的私事又逼得他走投无路，他一直认为这是个上策，但是他还在犹豫。他不知道这样做会给他带来什么恶果--他什么时候会遇到麻烦。至于这件事本身对不对，他从未想过。在任何情况下，他都决不会想到这一点。
当他把所有的钱都装进手提包后，他突然想变卦。他不能这样做--不能！想想这会成为多大的丑闻。还有那些警察！
他们会追捕他的。他得逃走，但逃到哪里去呢？唉呀，成为一个躲避法律的逃犯是多么可怕！他拿出两个抽屉，把所有的钱又放了回去。慌乱中，他忘了自己在干什么，把钱放错了抽屉。
当他关上保险柜的门时，他想起没放对，又把门打开。两只抽屉弄错了。
他把抽屉拿出来，重新放好钱，可是这时恐惧感消失了。
为什么要害怕呢？
他手里还拿着钱时，保险柜的锁咔嗒一响，锁上了！是他锁的吗？他抓住锁钮使劲地拉。锁死了。天哪，现在他肯定脱不了关系了。
当他一意识到保险柜的确锁上了。他额头直冒冷汗，身上一个劲地抖。他看了看周围，立刻作了决定。现在不能耽搁了。
“就算我把钱放在保险柜顶上，”他说，“然后走开，他们照样会知道是谁拿的。我是最后一个关门的。另外，还会发生其它的事情。”他立刻变成了行动果断的人。
“我得离开这里，”他想。
他慌慌忙忙地走进他的小房间，取下他的轻便大衣和帽子，锁好写字台，拎起手提包。然后，他关了所有的灯，只留下一盏亮着，开门出来。他试图装出平日里那副自信的样子，但几乎做不到。他很快就后悔了。“但愿我没干这个，”他说，“这是个错误。”他照直沿着街走下去，碰到一个认识的查夜人在检查门户，还打了声招呼。他得出城去，而且要快。
“不知道什么时候有火车，”他想。
他立刻取出怀表看了看。这时快１点半了。
走到第一家药店，他看见店里有个长途电话间，于是停了下来。这是家很有名气的药店，装有私人电话间。
“我想借用一下你们的电话，”他对夜班职员说。
后者点点头。
“请接１６４３，”他查到了密执安中心火车站的号码后，对总机说。很快就接通了售票员。
“去底特律有什么时间的火车？”他问。
那人说了几个开车时间。
“今天夜里没有车了吗？”
“没有挂卧汽车厢的车。噢，对了，还有一班，”他补充说。
“有一班邮车３点钟从这里开出。”
“好的，”赫斯渥说。“那班车什么时候到达底特律。”他在想。只要他到了底特律，从那里过河进入加拿大，他就可以从从容容地去蒙特利尔了。当他得知火车中午就到，心里感到轻松了一些。
“马休要到９点才会打开保险柜，”他想。“他们中午之前是找不到我的行踪的。”这时，他想起了嘉莉。他若想真的得到嘉莉，必须火速行动。她得一起走。他跳上旁边最近的一辆马车。
“去奥登公寓，”他厉声说。“如果你跑得快，我加你一块钱。”车夫鞭打他的马，使它做出飞奔的样子，不过还是比较快。一路上，赫斯渥想好了怎么去做。到了公寓，他急忙跨上台阶，照旧按铃叫醒了女仆。
“杜洛埃太太在家吗？”他问。
“在家，”女孩吃惊地说。
“告诉她马上穿好衣服到门口来。他丈夫受了伤，人在医院里，他要见她。”女仆看到这个人紧张而郑重的神情，相信了，急忙上楼去。
“什么？”嘉莉说。她点亮煤气灯，找衣服穿。
“杜洛埃先生受了伤，人在医院里，他要见你。马车在楼下等着。”嘉莉飞快地穿好衣服，很快下来了，除了几件必需品，什么都没有拿。
“杜洛埃受伤了，”赫斯渥说得很快。“他要见你，快走。”嘉莉完全被弄糊涂了，想也没想就相信了这一切。
“上车吧，”赫斯渥说，扶她上了车，随后自己也跳上车。
车夫开始调转马头。
“去密执安中心火车站，”他站起身来说道，声音压得很低，以免嘉莉听见。“越快越好。”