Never a thought of the past undaunted courage, never a memory of the old victories which had made the Quarrier fortune possible--only contempt for age, a sneer for the mind and body that had failed at last.

The old robber was done for, his armour rotten, his buckler broken, his sword blade rusted to the core.

The least of his victims might now finish him with a club where he swayed in his loosened saddle, or leave him to that horseman on the pale horse watching him yonder on the horizon.
For now, whether Harrington lived or died, he must be counted as nothing in this new struggle darkly outlining its initial strategy in Quarrier's brain.

What was coming was coming between himself and Plank alone; and whatever the result--whether an armed truce leaving affairs indefinitely in statu quo, or the other alternative, an alliance with Plank, leaving Harrington like a king in his mail, propped upon his throne, dead eyes doubly darkened under the closed helmet--the result must be attained swiftly, with secrecy, and with the aid of no man.

For he did not count Mortimer a man.
So Quarrier's thin lips twitched and the glimmer of teeth showed under the silky beard as he listened without comment to the old man's hesitating words--a tremulous suggestion for a conference that evening--and he said again, "to-morrow," and left him there alone, groping with uncertain hands toward the door of the hired coupe which had brought him to the place of his earthly downfall; the place where he had met his own weird face to face--the wraith that bore the mask of Plank.
Quarrier, brooding sullenly in his Mercedes, was already far up town on his way to Major Belwether's house.
At the door, Sylvia's maid received him smilingly, saying that her mistress was not at home but that Mrs.Mortimer was--which saved Quarrier the necessity of asking for the private conference with Leila which was exactly what he had come for.