"Crime! I thought you had not killed Carr."
"No," said Corn in a low voice, "But I have the blood of a fellow creature on my hands for all that," and he buried his face in his hands.
"I judge no man," said Herrick after a pause, "but do not tell me anything that may render it difficult for me to keep sacred your confidence."
"Oh, there is nothing you need fear from that," replied Corn drearily. "It was an accident. Wait till I recover myself."
The man took a turn up and down the room. After five minutes he resumed his seat and spoke composedly. "My name is not Corn," he began, "Langham is my name--Francis Langham. I was in the army."
"So Bess Endicotte said," nodded Herrick.
Corn smiled faintly. "Yes! I let that slip one day, when she was talking of my looking like a soldier. But she does not know my real name. No one does save the Bishop who gave me this living. Ah! he was a good man. He is dead now. But I have to thank him for saving my reason and my life."
"How was that?" asked Herrick settling himself.
"I was quartered in the West Indies," said Corn after a pause, "and I there had a friend, who joined about the same time as I did. I need not tell you his name or the number of my regiment. All you need know is the simple story of my misery. My friend and I were always together; they called us David and Jonathan in the regiment. Well," here Corn nerved himself to a tremendous effort, "we were out shooting ducks. We were parted amongst the reeds on the borders of the lake. I thought I saw the brown back of a duck through some reeds. Without thinking I fired, and--I killed my friend! Oh, my God!"
When the man's head went down on the table, Herrick clasped him by the shoulder. He was profoundly moved by the miserable story, and could well understand how a once strong man had been changed by this tragic deed into a weak, tremulous, creature. He did not say a word of comfort. It would have been useless. After a time Corn recovered himself and continued in a dull hard voice.