McAllister did not grasp the meaning of this remark; he only felt relief that Wilkins apparently bore him no ill-will. Very few of his friends would have followed up a theft of that sort. They expected their men to steal their pins.
"Mebbe I might 'elp you. Wot's the charge, sir?"
With his former valet as a sympathetic listener, McAllister poured out his whole story, omitting nothing, and, as he finished, leaned forward, searching eagerly the other's face.
"Now, what shall I do? What shall I do, Wilkins?"
The latter coughed deprecatingly.
"You'll pardon me, but that'll never go, sir! You'll have to get somethin' better than that, sir. The jury will never believe it."
McAllister sprang to his feet, in so doing knocking his head against the iron support of the upper cot.
"How dare you, Wilkins! What do you mean?"
"There, there, sir!" exclaimed the other. "Don't take on so. Of course I didn't mean you wouldn't tell the truth, sir. But don't you see, sir, hit isn't I as am goin' to listen to it? Shall I fetch you some water to wash your face, sir?" He turned on the faucet.
The clubman, yielding to the force of ancient habit, allowed Wilkins to let it run for him, and having washed his face and combed his hair, felt somewhat refreshed.