Again he paused. Her eyes were upon him, but she said nothing.
Finding her hold had slackened, he got up, lighted a lamp, and sat down with its light streaming across his rugged face.
"I don't know what you have been thinking of me all this time," he said, "if you have stooped to think of me at all."
"I have often thought of you," Avery answered. "But I had a feeling that you—that you—" she hesitated—"that you could scarcely be in sympathy with us both," she ended.
"I see." Crowther's eyes met hers with absolute directness. "But you realize that that was a mistake," he said.
She answered him in the affirmative. Before those straight eyes of his she could not do otherwise.
"I could not express my sympathy with you," he said. "I did not even know that it would be welcome, and I could not interfere without your husband's consent. I was bound by a promise. But—" he smiled faintly—"I told him clearly that if you came to me I should not keep that promise. I should regard it as my release."
"What have you to tell me?" Avery asked.
"Just this," he said. "It isn't a very long story, but I don't think you have heard it before. It's just the story of one of the worst bits of bad luck that ever befell a man. He was only a lad of nineteen, and he went out into the world with all his life before him. He was rich and successful in every way, full of promise, brilliant. There was something so splendid about him that he seemed somehow to belong to a higher planet. He had never known failure or disgrace. But one night an evil fate befell him. He was forced to fight—against his will; and—he killed his man. It was an absolutely unforeseen result. He took heavy odds, and naturally he matched them with all the skill at his command. But it was a fair fight. I testify to that. He took no mean advantage."
Crowther's eyes were gazing beyond Avery. He spoke with a curious deliberation as if he were describing a vision that hung before him.