Jack began to perceive that it was scarcely a reasonable being he had
to deal with. He took a different line. "I guess you've led a dog's
life these last few years," he said quietly.
Garrod looked at him queerly. "Oh, my God," he said in a flat voice.
"Nobody knows."
"I suppose you know what's the matter with you," said Jack. There was
no answer.
"It's what the story-books call remorse," said Jack. "You can't go to
work and ruin your best friend without having bad dreams afterward."
"I never took the money," Garrod murmured.
Jack ignored it. "Your friend," he repeated with a direct look. "Do
you remember, as we stood waiting for my train to pull out, you put
your arm around my shoulders, and said: 'Buck up, old fel'! We've got
in many a hole together, and we always saw each other out! Count on
me--until death!' Do you remember that?"
"Yes," murmured Garrod.
"And next morning you took the money to pay your debts, to get you out
of your hole, knowing they would put it off on me. You pushed me into
a hole as deep as hell, and left me to rot there."
Garrod put up a trembling hand as if to fend off a blow. "I didn't
take it," he murmured still.
"Look me in the eyes, and swear it," demanded Jack.
He could not.
"Now, look here," said Jack. "You're in a bad way. You can't stand
much more. There's going to be a grand show-down to-night. Do you
think you can go through with that?"
"Eh?" asked Garrod, dully and anxiously.
"Listen to me, and try to understand," said Jack impatiently. "Sir
Bryson has gone to look at my claims. He will read the name Malcolm
Piers written on the post, and when he comes back he will know who I
am, and there'll be the deuce to pay. Do you think you're in any state
to face me down? Why, man, the very look of you is enough to give you
away!"
Garrod merely looked at him with dull, frightened eyes. "Suppose you
could face me down," Jack continued, "what then? You can't face
yourself down. You were born a decent fellow at heart, Frank, and you
can't get away with this sort of thing. It's got you. And every new
lie you tell just adds to the nightmare that's breaking you now.
You've reached the limit. Anything more, and you'll go clean off your
head."
"You'll tell Sir Bryson everything," muttered Garrod.
"When I am accused I defend myself," said Jack.
"I couldn't go through with it. I couldn't," Garrod said like a
frightened, stupefied schoolboy.
"Sure, you couldn't," urged Jack, pursuing his advantage. "Make a
clean breast of it before Sir Bryson comes home, and you won't have to
face him at all. By Gad! think what a load off your mind! You'd be
cured then; you'd sleep; you'd be a man again!"