It rang desperately true, and the first yarn, if you understand me, had been in a queer way true also in spirit.

The fifteenth day of June was going to be a day of destiny, a bigger destiny than the killing of a Dago.

It was so big that I didn't blame Scudder for keeping me out of the game and wanting to play a lone hand.
That, I was pretty clear, was his intention.

He had told me something which sounded big enough, but the real thing was so immortally big that he, the man who had found it out, wanted it all for himself.

I didn't blame him.