“Yes—I thought so.”
“Crailey!” And now Tom's expression showed desperation; it was that of a man whose apprehensions have culminated and who is forced to face a crisis long expected, long averted, but imminent at last. His eyes fell from Crailey's clear gaze and his hand fidgeted among the papers on the desk.
“No,” he began with a painful lameness and hesitation. “I did not mean it—no; I meant, that, in the same way, only one thing in this other—this other affair that seems so confused and is such a problem—only one thing has grown clear. It doesn't seem to me that—that—” here he drew a deep breath, before he went on with increasing nervousness—“that if you like a man and have lived with him a good many years; that is to say, if you're really much of a friend to him, I don't believe you sit on a high seat and judge him. Judging, and all that, haven't much part in it. And it seems to me that you've got yourself into a pretty bad mix-up, Crailey.”
“Yes,” said Crailey. “It's pretty bad.”
“Well,” Tom looked up now, with an almost tremulous smile, “I believe that is about all I can make of it. Do you think it's the part of your best friend to expose you? It seems to me that if there ever was a time when I ought to stand by you, it's now.”
There was a silence while they looked at each other across the desk in the faint light. Tom's eye fell again as Crailey opened his lips.
“And in spite of everything,” Crailey said breathlessly, “you mean that you won't tell?”
“How could I, Crailey?” said Tom Vanrevel as he turned away.