Barton D’Evereaux ran his fingers through his silver hair. He poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to the person sitting across the desk from him.

“Here. Drink up. One of us will need it.” Barton sipped his drink, studying his companion over the rim. How could he have misjudged his friend so badly? Had there been some indication, or was he that blind? Neither thought brought comfort.

Setting his glass down, the banker issued a resigned sigh, pondering the choices life often offered. “You know I’ll have to report this to the authorities. There’s really no other way.” He watched closely for a reaction to his words, but there was no discernible response.

His friend took a long sip of brandy. “Reconsider, Barton. You lost more to that gambler than you can afford. I’m offering you a solution to your financial troubles. In fact, I’m offering you a great deal more. You really have no choice. Accept my offer, or I promise, you’ll be sorry. Don’t answer now. Just consider what I’ve said.”

Weariness, as tangible as a wool cloak, settled on him. “There’s nothing to consider. You’re mistaken about the gambler.” Picking up his glass, Barton swirled the fiery liquid around before taking a drink. “I can’t accept your offer. Either one. We’ve been friends too long for that. I’m truly sorry, but I have to report this first thing in the morning. I’ll help you anyway I can, but it has to be reported.” Sadness overwhelmed him.

“You always were an honorable man, Barton. Actually, that’s one of the things I most admire about you. No, you have nothing to be sorry about. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

There seemed to be nothing else to say. They stared at each other across the great expanse of the desk. Barton stood. In the hallway, the clock struck midnight. Melodious chimes filled the air. As the last note faded, a single shot rang out.

The banker clutched his chest. Stunned, he stared at the blood oozing between his fingers. Disbelief kept the pain at bay. Why? He tried to ask the question, but no words came. A red haze surrounded him. Barton slowly crumpled forward, scattering the ledger sheets on his desk. His last thought before he died was of Delilah. Who would care for her now?