Guest took a chair, and placing its back opposite to his friend, strode across it, and rested his arms on the rail.
“Look here, Stratton, old fellow; I’ve always trusted you, and you’ve always trusted me.”
“Yes, of course,” said Stratton hurriedly.
“Well, then, as your old chum—the man who has stuck to you and is going to stick to you all through this hobble into which you have got yourself—don’t you think it would be as well to make a clean breast of it—to me?”
Stratton’s eyes dilated as he spoke, and his look was so strange that Guest involuntarily prepared himself for some outbreak.
“You can trust me,” continued Guest, and he saw a look of despair come into his friend’s countenance. “Come, old chap, what’s the use of a friend if he is not to help you? You know I want to.”
Stratton’s lips parted in an almost inaudible, “Yes.”
“Well, then, for poor Myra’s sake.”
Stratton started as if he had been stung.
“I can’t help hurting you, and I repeat—for her sake. She is a woman. She loves you.”