He began to walk up and down the room.
“A man does not live—for fifteen years—side by side with another—that other loving him wholly—and see the blackness of his own deed laid bare—and hear again and again of the woe he has wrought—he does not live so in peace.”
“No,” answered Tom.
“I tell you—” wildly—“I tell you there have been hours—as he has talked to me of her—when the cold sweat has stood upon my flesh.”
He came back to Tom. He was frantic with agonised restlessness.
“In all the cruelty of it,” he cried, “there seems to have been one human pitying soul. It was yours. You were tender to her in those last hours. You were merciful—you held her hand when she died.”
“Yes,” said Tom, in a somewhat husky voice, since he remembered it so well, “she was frightened. Her little hand was cold. I took it in mine and told her not to be afraid.”
Baird flung out his own hand with a movement of passionate feeling—then let it fall at his side.
“We shall not meet again,” he said, “you will not want to see me.”
Big Tom gave him a long, steady look.