After a distinct pause Crowther followed him. They stood together gazing out over the dim wilderness of many roofs and chimneys to where the crude glare of an advertisement lit up the night sky.
Piers was absolutely motionless, but there was a species of violence in his very stillness, as of a trapped animal preparing to make a wild rush for freedom. His attitude was feverishly tense.
Suddenly and very quietly Crowther's hand came forth and linked itself in his arm. "What is it, lad?" he said.
Piers made a jerky movement as if to avoid the touch, but the hand closed slowly and steadily upon him. He turned abruptly and met Crowther's eyes.
"Crowther," he said, "I've behaved like a cur. I—broke that promise I made to you."
He ground out the words savagely, between clenched teeth. Yet his look was defiant still. He held himself as a man defying shame.
Crowther's eyes never varied. They looked straight back with a wide kindliness greater than compassion, wholly devoid of reproach.
"All right, Piers," he said simply.
Piers stared at him for a moment as one in blank amazement, then very strangely his face altered. The hardness went from it like a mask suddenly rent away. He made an inarticulate sound and turned from the open window.
A second later he was sunk in Crowther's chair with his head in his hands, sobbing convulsively, painfully, uncontrollably, in an agony that tore like a living thing at the very foundations of his being.