The woman, Gabriel's betrayer, counted her "thirty pieces of silver" and laughed in the foul dark.

The police cut a fine melon secretly handed them by Flint; and so, too, did the local papers and more than one local pulpit.
So, in Gabriel's grief and woe and desolation, as he sat in his grim cell with aching head, bruised face and bleeding heart, with all his plans now broken, with the very soul within him dead--in this grief and anguish, I say, the foul harpy-brood of Capitalism revelled and rioted like maggots in carrion.
None more viciously than old Flint, himself.

None with more brutal joy, more savage satisfaction.

One of the culminant moments of his life, he felt, was on the evening after the dastardly plot had been carried to its putrid conclusion.
Opening the Rochester "News-Intelligencer" which Slade had sent him, his glittering eyes seemed to sparkle joy as a blue-penciled column met his gaze.
Eagerly he read it all, every word, and weighed it, and re-read it, as men do when news is dear to their souls.

Already, through the New York papers he had got the essentials of the affair.