He checked himself suddenly, with a queer look.
“What was the story of the Red Derelict?” said Wagram, after a pause.
“Better leave that alone—except that it was a story of red murder and piracy such as you’d think only existed in books. And now, Wagram,” he went on, “I’ve been yarning a lot more than any man in my state ought to yarn, and I’m feeling tired. You’d never guess what brought me down here this time. It wasn’t to fleece you again—no, no. Fact is, I heard you were back, and I was curious to see you again and hear how you had got on. And I have. You shook hands with me once; I’d be glad if you’d do it again.”
But Wagram’s hand did not come forward, nor did he move.
“That was when I thought your story a true one,” he said. “On your own showing you have heaped dishonour upon my family, and I can testify that you hastened my father’s end. It is not in human nature to forgive that—at any rate, all at once.”
“Later than ‘all at once’ will be too late, and by refusing your forgiveness to a dying man you will be denying your own creed.”
He smiled as he watched the struggle going on within the other. Then Wagram slowly put forth his hand.
“For any injury to me I forgive you freely,” he said. “For the rest I will try to. Good-bye.”
“And you will succeed. Good-bye, Wagram. You will never regret this. And ask Haldane to come up for a minute. I should like to bid him good-bye for the sake of old times.”
Wagram bent his head and left the room, and at a word from him Haldane went up.