"He's dead," muttered Garrod.
A harsh note of laughter broke from Jack.
"I suppose you don't believe me," said Garrod.
"Hardly," said Jack. "It fits in a bit too well."
Garrod's voice rose shaky and shrill: "It's true! I swear it! Three men; French, they were. I can see them now! One was young; he had a scar across his forehead——'
"Oh, cut out the fine touches," said Jack contemptuously. "Any fool could see you were lying." He went on whittling his brace.
Garrod's voice sunk to a whimper. "It's true! It's true!"
Jack began to perceive that it was scarcely a reasonable being he had to deal with. He took a different line. "I guess you've led a dog's life these last few years," he said quietly.
Garrod looked at him queerly. "Oh, my God," he said in a flat voice. "Nobody knows."
"I suppose you know what's the matter with you," said Jack. There was no answer.