But the other counselor, called Conscience, as repeatedly said to him: “You never told a lie. Can you tell one now?”
In such grievous plight, he received a secret message, sent by underground from Wyeth.
“I’m getting impatient,” was Wyeth’s word. “Are you, or are you not, going to come clean?”
This enhanced his desperation. From sleeplessness, from gnawing worry he lost flesh. People about him said the noble young governor was not like himself any more. They predicted a breakdown unless he was cured of what hidden cause it was which distressed him.
One morning he rose, haggard and red-eyed, from the bed upon which since midnight he had tossed and rolled. He had made his decision. Selfishness had won. He would break his promise to Wyeth. But since he must go to eternal Hell for a lie, he would go there for another and a sweeter reason.
Until now, his romantic dealings with little Mrs. Riddle had been mild and harmless, if clandestinely conducted. He had not philandered with her; he merely had flirted. On his side it had been an innocent flirtation—an agreeable diversion. But he knew the lady’s mind—knew she was weak and willing, where he had been strong and straightforward.
So be it then. For a crown to his other and lesser iniquity he would corrupt the wife of his devoted friend.
For the first time in a month he had zest for his breakfast. Conscience was so thoroughly drugged she seemed as though dead.