Harding did so, and for ten minutes Tony, who stared straight in front of him at the blue Bougainvillea on the moonlit wall, spoke with quiet conciseness, while Harding sat in the shadow watching him. At last he turned to Harding.
“I think you will see that your confidence in the man I have injured was fully warranted, sir,” he said. “If I have made you understand that, it is, at least, a little in reparation. I can’t ask you to forgive, Bernard, but I want to straighten out what I can.”
Harding for some reason moved uneasily in his chair, but Appleby, leaning across the table, held out his hand.
“You can’t look past it now, Tony,” he said. “Can’t we still be friends?”
Tony glanced at him, and made a curious little sound which resembled a groan, then a red flush crept into his face as he took Appleby’s hand. An unpleasant silence followed until Harding spoke.
“I shall hope for your better acquaintance, Mr. Palliser,” he said.
Tony looked at him in wonder. “You realize what I have done, sir?”
Harding nodded gravely. “I have heard how you have tried to make it up,” he said. “Well, I guess I’ve seen and handled a good many men, and there’s more hope of those who trip up and get on their feet again than for quite a few of the others who have never fallen at all. Now, I’m glad you’ve told me, though, so far as my belief in Mr. Appleby goes, it was not by any means necessary.”
Tony made a little movement with his head. “I’ve made over Dane Cop to you, Bernard,” he said. “It is yours by right, and you can take it without feeling that you owe anything to me. Godfrey Palliser meant it for you—until I deceived him.”
Appleby said nothing, but his set face showed what he was bearing for his comrade, and Harding quietly touched his shoulder.