"Yessir," said Blythe, now shamefaced, feeling himself a traitor. "You've had six or seven dozen, sir."
Hector put down the glass. Tears welled up in his eyes. Blythe looked desperate.
"I'm not ashamed of them, Blythe," said Hector thickly. "God bless the boys—God bless 'em."
Finishing the drink, he felt better. And, somehow, Blythe's confession had helped him wonderfully. The collective strength of the men seemed to pass into him.
"What's the time, Blythe?"
"'Bout seven, sir."
"Right. Finish your job and clear out. Inspector Forshaw will be here soon."
With Blythe's departure, Hector gathered himself together for the great effort facing him. His brain was working more freely, but his physical weakness filled him with panic.
"God, but this illness must have pulled me down," he thought, and with the thought resolved to see if it was so.
Against all orders, he got out of bed and put his slippers on. The effort was stupendous. The room swam before his eyes and he thought himself about to faint. But he set his teeth, calling all his tremendous will-power to his aid, feeling that inestimable things depended on his success or failure now. Then, clutching at the bed, the chair, the table, for support, he made a tragic and heart-breaking pilgrimage on his trembling legs across the narrow space to the shaving mirror by the lamp. Sweat streaming down his face, his heart pounding furiously, he looked into the mirror—received a stunning shock——