"Now—about that letter. What do you propose to do?"
"I—I don't know."
"Then I'll tell you. You'll write your father, of course, and make that reconciliation. Why, you're lucky to have a father and mother—and have them care as much. Then you'll stop this nonsense. You'll work hard, get your Commission"—the Marquis flashed an astonished glance at Hector, but it was disregarded,—"go to the top of the tree, make a name for yourself and be able at last to look your people—even that girl of yours—in the face."
"I can't. I can't—it's too late!"
"It's not too late. Why, I was once almost as handicapped as you, Humphries. My father died when I was a youngster, my mother's been dead six years. I started as a buck constable. But the officers were good to me—the first Commissioner—and later Commissioners—and Superintendent Denton, who left the Force some time ago. They all helped. Officers don't go down on a man unjustly, Humphries. They're all ready to lend a hand. You think I look on you as only one man in hundreds, too insignificant to care about. But I don't. You're as much to me as any. You're not the first I've helped make good, by any means. And I want to help you. You can make good, if I could. Yes, you can. Now, listen. I'm not going to hammer you this time, though you've deserved it. I'm going to let you off easily. In return, I want you to run straight. And the first time I get the chance, I'll give you an opportunity—a real opportunity—to prove yourself."
But the strain of the interview had been almost more than the Marquis could bear. His father's letter had put him on the rack. And the C.O.'s unexpected kindness had humbled him into the dust. Instead of unreasoning severity he had today, for the first time, sympathy. He began to understand why men loved and feared Hector, to see why he had attained greatness.
"Is it a go?"
"My God, sir—I—don't know—what—to say. You're the first——"
"That'll do," Hector interrupted him. "Then it is a go. Remember—!"
And he called in the Sergeant-Major and escort.