Quite possibly neither of these two ever could have told how many miles they walked that icy winter’s night, but walk they did till every drop of Cary’s hot blood was rushing healthily through his weary body, and the fires in his brain had died the death they must inevitably die under such treatment. They walked in silence for the most part. Cary wasn’t angry, even at the first—he was ashamed, disappointed—but not angry. How could he be really angry with a man who loved him enough for this? And, deep down in his heart, presently he was glad—glad to be saved from himself. Was it for the man who had written that splendid play to take it out in the old degradation; was it for him who had made Truth shine in an embodiment of loveliness to drag its creator in the mire on this same night that his friends had looked upon his work and declared that it was good? When at last he stumbled wearily along the little street again, with a stumbling that was no feigning this time but the genuine sign of a fatigue so overpowering that sleep was almost on its heels, he was thankful to this strange and comprehending friend as he had never been thankful to him before.
“Good-night, Ray,” said Robert Black, at the shop door, and under the street-light Cary saw the smile that had come to mean more to him to-night than it ever had before—and it had meant much already.
“Do you trust me now?” Cary met the dark eyes straightforwardly at last.
“Absolutely. I trusted you before. It was the over-strained nerves and brain I was anxious for, because I’ve had them many a time myself. They’re hard to manage. Taking them to walk is just good medicine, that’s all. You’ll sleep like a top, now.”
“And you’re sure I won’t slide out, when you’re gone?”
Black’s hand gripped Cary’s. “I’d stake my life on it.”
Cary choked a little as he returned the grip. “You don’t need to. I’d prefer to stake mine.” Then he bolted, and the shop door closed behind him.
Black looked up at the wide-open window over the shop he knew was Jane’s. “Sleep well, my friend,” he was thinking. “I told you I’d stand by you—to the limit.”
CHAPTER X
A SHIFTING OF HONOURS
TOM LOCKHART emerged from the stage dressing-room in the uniform of a French soldier, his face made up with paint and powder and crayon to indicate that he was in the final stages of suffering from gunshot wounds. His head was bandaged, his clothes were torn, but he gave the lie to these signs of disaster by dashing up the stairs and into the wings of the stage with the lusty action of perfect health and a great zest for his part.