"It's what the story-books call remorse," said Jack. "You can't go to work and ruin your best friend without having bad dreams afterward."
"I never took the money," Garrod murmured.
Jack ignored it. "Your friend," he repeated with a direct look. "Do you remember, as we stood waiting for my train to pull out, you put your arm around my shoulders, and said: 'Buck up, old fel'! We've got in many a hole together, and we always saw each other out! Count on me—until death!' Do you remember that?"
"Yes," murmured Garrod.
"And next morning you took the money to pay your debts, to get you out of your hole, knowing they would put it off on me. You pushed me into a hole as deep as hell, and left me to rot there."
Garrod put up a trembling hand as if to fend off a blow. "I didn't take it," he murmured still.
"Look me in the eyes, and swear it," demanded Jack.
He could not.
"Now, look here," said Jack. "You're in a bad way. You can't stand much more. There's going to be a grand show-down to-night. Do you think you can go through with that?"
"Eh?" asked Garrod, dully and anxiously.