“You’ve seen Hayhurst, I suppose?”
“Yes. He delivered the letters safely.” He sat forward and stared at the ghastly suffering face. “He gave me a fairly graphic history of their recovery. The whole circumstances were a huge surprise,—huge. It was a masterly undertaking. The service you have rendered is incalculable. When the time comes we shall know how to thank you more adequately, in the meanwhile you have our very earnest gratitude; and I can only express my sincere regret that the result should be so disastrous for you.”
Colonel Grey advanced his hand. To his surprise Lawless refused to take it.
“Disastrous! Yes,” he answered. “Letters that are of a nature to lend themselves to blackmailing purposes are not worth the risk of a man’s life—and character. I suppose you might argue that I’ve boasted I hold life cheaply, and you doubtless consider I have no character to lose. Confess now,” he added, in response to the other’s hastily uttered protest, “that until those letters were safe in your hands you entertained a suspicion that I might misuse them?”
The Colonel sought for words and sought vainly. He was far too ruggedly honest to deny the charge. After a moment or two of silence he tacitly admitted it.
“Most men are liable to mistakes,” he said. “And... I suppose I was prejudiced.”
The man lying back in the easy-chair smiled drily.
“I am so unfortunate as to prejudice most people unfavourably. A profligate adventurer can scarcely expect to do otherwise.”
An almost inaudible sound broke from Zoë Lawless’ lips. He did not look at her but continued in the same bitter strain to the pain and embarrassment of both his hearers.
“For every offence of which I’ve been guilty I’ve had to pay to the uttermost farthing. On appearance I’ve been convicted of sins I haven’t committed. It’s the luck, I suppose, of the man who is marked for failure from the beginning of things.”