"Yes, alone!"
Patcham eyed Allan a little resentfully, a little suspiciously. "I hope," he began, "I hope, Mr. Homewood, as 'ee've got no idea o' trying to get Abram away from me? I've spoke out for he and spoken as I did find, but——"
Allan smiled. "Have no fear, I want to speak to Lestwick on an entirely different matter."
Patcham's face cleared as he walked away. "Now I du wonder what he can have to say to Abram?" he thought.
And now the two were left together and Allan, looking at the abject, servile creature before him, felt suddenly tongue-tied. He was conscious of a feeling of hot shame. Those unsightly marks, those livid bruises were his work, the work of his fists. How desperately he must have punished the man in his rage.
"Lestwick—I have something to say to you, an apology to make, I wish to ask your pardon."
The wandering eyes were lifted for a moment to Allan's face, then dropped again, the hands were at their nervous work.
"I misjudged you and in my anger treated you roughly, for which I am deeply sorry," said Allan, eager to make his amends and be done with it, for he could not but be conscious of his great and growing repugnance and repulsion for the man.
He waited, but Abram said nothing, he stood there mute, his eyes seeming to search the ground about him.
"You misled me—when we—when you and I—on Saturday night, when we fought, I mean—I say you misled me, I thought you had a knife and thinking so I struck you hardly. I am sorry for it, I made a mistake and I wish to ask your forgiveness for what I did."