Pocket was passionately honest, as his worst friends knew; he had an instinctive admiration for downright honesty in another. His young soul was torn with grief and pity for the dead; he was already haunted by the inevitable and complex consequences of his fatal misadventure, and yet he could dimly appreciate the candid declaration of one who had attempted to turn that tragedy to instantaneous and inconceivable account. It was the mistaken kindness to himself that he still found most difficult to forgive.
“It’s got to come out,” he groaned; “this will make it all the worse.”
“You mean the delay?”
“Yes! Who’s to tell them I didn’t do it on purpose, and run away, and then think better of it?”
Baumgartner smiled.
“Surely I am,” said he; but his smile went out with the words. “If only they believe me!” he added as though it was a new idea to him.
It was a terrifying one to Pocket.
“Why shouldn’t they?” was his broken exclamation.
“I don’t know. I never thought of it before. But what can I swear to, after all? I can swear you shot a man, but I can’t swear you shot him in your sleep!”
“You said you saw I did!”