Bernard's arm was round him in a moment, a staunch, upholding arm. "Everard—dear old chap—can't you tell me what it is?" he said. "God knows I'll die sooner than let you down."
Everard did not answer. His breathing was hard, spasmodic, intensely painful to hear. He had the look of a man stricken in his pride.
For a space Bernard stood dumbly supporting him. Then at length very quietly he moved and guided him to a chair.
"Take your time!" he said gently. "Sit down!"
Mutely Everard submitted. The agony of that night had stripped his manhood of its reserve. He sat crouched, his head bowed upon his clenched hands.
"Wait while I fetch you a drink!" Bernard said.
He was gone barely two minutes. Returning, he fastened the window and drew the curtain across. Then he bent again over the huddled figure in the chair.
"Take a mouthful of this, old fellow! It'll pull you together."
Everard groped outwards with a quivering hand. "Give me strength—to shoot myself," he muttered.
The words were only just audible, but Bernard caught them. "No,—give you strength to play the game," he said, and held the glass he had brought to his brother's lips.