He signed the page, and dated it. Taking the book, Jack slipped it in the breast pocket of his flannel shirt. Jack was genuinely moved. It was borne in on him dimly that though he was technically the injured party, it was the other man who showed the wound.
"You'll feel better now," he said gruffly.
Garrod lay back on the stones, and covered his face with his arm. "I suppose you loathe me, Malcolm," he muttered.
"You've gone a long way to make it up," Jack said, in the keenest discomfort. "Just give me a little time."
Garrod's thoughts strayed in another direction. "What will she say?" he whispered.
Considering everything, this was a poser for Jack. "You've got no business to be thinking about girls in your state," he said frowning. "Put her out of your mind, man, and go to work to win back what you've lost."
Garrod reverted to the night five years before. "I didn't mean to take the money," he murmured. "I couldn't sleep after you went, that night, and all night I played with the idea as if it was a story. Supposing I did take the money, you know, how I would cover my tracks, and so on. But I never meant to. And next morning when I went to the bank I was alone in the vault for a moment, and I slipped the package in my pocket just to carry out the idea, and Rokeby came in before I could put it back. Then the money was counted, and the shortage discovered. I had plenty of other chances to put it back, for the money was counted twenty times, but I was always afraid of being seen, and I kept putting it off, and at last the alarm was given and it was too late. They were old bills and they couldn't be traced.
"I don't know how I lived through the time that followed. I was afraid to put it back then, because the fellows talked about my changed looks, and I knew if the money turned up they would suspect me. As it was, they thought I was grieving on your account. I was, too, but not the way they thought. I set a store by you, Malcolm. I didn't mean to injure you. I just drifted into it, and I was caught before I knew. The thought of meeting you brought the sweat pouring out of me. I thought you would come back. I bought a revolver, and carried it always. If I had come face to face with you it would have nerved me to turn it on myself, which I couldn't do alone.
"You didn't come. The thing was quickly hushed up. I left the bank, and my life went on like anybody's. I didn't think about the money any more. But something had changed in me. I was nervous and cranky without knowing why. I couldn't sleep nights. I was full of silly terrors, always looking around corners, and over my shoulder. And it kept getting worse."
Garrod's voice never varied from the toneless half-whisper that was like a man talking in his sleep. "Then I came up here," he went on, "and ran into you without any warning. It was like a blow on the temple. It all came back to me. Then I knew what was the matter. I didn't kill myself on the spot, because I found you didn't know. I wish I had. I've died a thousand deaths since. It was like little knives in my brain thrusting and hacking. I could have screamed with it——"