"Drink that," he said. And then, as the other obeyed: "It is no use fencing with the question, Grell. If you want me to help you you will have to give some explanation. I am not going to dip my hands in this business blindly. Don't think it's a matter of you and I simply. This concerns Eileen."
Grell put down his empty glass and stared into the other's eyes.
"Ah yes, Eileen," he said quietly. "What about her?"
"This," Fairfield spoke tensely, "that if you are guilty you have ruined her life; if you are innocent and cannot prove it you might as well be guilty. I'll not conceal from you that I have given Scotland Yard some measure of assistance in trying to find you. Do you know why? Because I judged you to be a man. Because I thought that if put to it you might prove your innocence or take the only course that could spare her the degradation of seeing the man she loved convicted as a murderer."
A grim unmirthful smile parted Robert Grell's lips. He understood well enough what was meant. "You always were a good friend, Fairfield," he retorted. "Perhaps you have a revolver you could lend me."
"Will you use it if I do?" burst impulsively from Fairfield's white lips. He was sincere in his suggestion. To his mind there was only one escape from the predicament in which his friend found himself. Anything was preferable, in his mind, to the open scandal of public trial.
"Don't be a fool," said Grell, making a gesture as though waving the subject aside. "I shall not commit suicide—at any rate, while I've got a fighting chance. Let's get to the point. Will you lend me some money?"
The clear-cut face of Fairfield had gone very pale. When he answered it was with dry lips and almost in a whisper.
"Not a farthing." And then with more emphasis—"Not a farthing."