"What if he knew about Linda and me," thought Jack with a sidelong look. "Gad! but life's a rum go!"
"I'd rather face Sir Bryson," stuttered Garrod. "Wait till Sir Bryson comes back. I swear I'll tell him the whole truth, and you shall be there."
"You're right, I'll be there," said Jack grimly. He considered, frowning. It might be better to confront Sir Bryson with Garrod direct, but Sir Bryson would not be back for five or six hours, and who could tell what contradictions of mood would pass over this half-insane man in the interval.
As if reading his mind, Garrod said: "I won't take anything back. You needn't be afraid—if you let me stay with you. You're my only hope. Let me stay with you. Give me something to do all day."
Jack rubbed his chin in perplexity. "Will you write out a confession?" he finally asked.
Garrod eagerly nodded his head.
"Wait here, then," commanded Jack.
Jack ran to his tent, where he got a pen and his note-book, and returned to the dugout. He was gone but two minutes, nevertheless as he sprang down the bank he saw that Garrod was no longer alone. Jean Paul had joined him.
It did not occur to Jack that the half-breed had any concern in this affair, but he was annoyed by his intrusion just at this minute. He looked at him sharply. Jean Paul stood idly chewing a grass-stalk, and looking out over the river with a face as expressionless as brown paper. Garrod was sitting as Jack had left him, looking at Jean Paul. A change had passed over his eyes.
Jack's temper got a little the better of him. "What do you want here?" he demanded.