"Listen to me, and try to understand," said Jack impatiently. "Sir Bryson has gone to look at my claims. He will read the name Malcolm Piers written on the post, and when he comes back he will know who I am, and there'll be the deuce to pay. Do you think you're in any state to face me down? Why, man, the very look of you is enough to give you away!"
Garrod merely looked at him with dull, frightened eyes. "Suppose you could face me down," Jack continued, "what then? You can't face yourself down. You were born a decent fellow at heart, Frank, and you can't get away with this sort of thing. It's got you. And every new lie you tell just adds to the nightmare that's breaking you now. You've reached the limit. Anything more, and you'll go clean off your head."
"You'll tell Sir Bryson everything," muttered Garrod.
"When I am accused I defend myself," said Jack.
"I couldn't go through with it. I couldn't," Garrod said like a frightened, stupefied schoolboy.
"Sure, you couldn't," urged Jack, pursuing his advantage. "Make a clean breast of it before Sir Bryson comes home, and you won't have to face him at all. By Gad! think what a load off your mind! You'd be cured then; you'd sleep; you'd be a man again!"
But Garrod murmured again: "I didn't take the money."
Jack fought hard for his good name. His need lent him an eloquence more than his own. In all this he never stooped by so much as a word to plead for himself. "Why shouldn't you tell the truth?" he persisted. "What good is this life you're leading to you? It'll kill you in a month. Chuck it all, and stay in this country, and win back your health, and your brains, and your self-respect."
Garrod wavered. He half turned to Jack with a more human look. "Would—would you be friends with me again?" he murmured.
"I'd stand by you," said Jack quickly. "I've got my start up here, and I could give you a good one. As long as I stood by you no one could rake up old scores. But it couldn't be just the same as it used to be," his honesty forced him to add.