Another moment or two and the devil in him would have been at work.

He hated Rossland.

He hated him now only a little less than he hated John Graham, and that he had let him go seemed a miracle to him.
He felt the strain he had been under.

But he was glad.

Some little god of common sense had overruled his passion, and he had acted wisely.
Graham would now get his message, and there could be no misunderstanding of purpose between them.
He was staring at the disordered papers on his desk when a movement at the door turned him about.