"Oh, that"—he broke into a mocking laugh—"that! You call that a good turn?"
A wave of scarlet came to Stanley's face. The extended hand fell to his side. He looked to Paul. Had his friend deceived him? Was this only a ruse on his part to make him shake hands with Newall, or had Newall taken leave of his senses? He could learn nothing from Paul's face, except that it looked just as mystified as he was.
"Certainly it was a good turn. I thoroughly upset Weevil yesterday, and goodness knows how much longer he would have kept me a prisoner if you hadn't spoken up for me, as Percival here tells me you did."
"Of course he did," put in Paul cheerfully. "He spoke up to Weevil like a brick. It's no use trying to hide your light under a bushel, Newall."
"Yes, it's true enough I spoke up to Weevil"—the mocking laughter had died out of Newall's eyes, and there was now a cruel, vindictive light in them, just as there had been when Paul had spoken to him the day before—"and it's true enough I wanted to get you out of that hole in the roof. But it wasn't to shake hands with you. Not at all. I got you out of that den so that I might meet you squarely face to face."
Stanley began to understand. It was not from any kindly motive Newall had spoken up for him that morning. The bitterness of his words now told him that, and the vindictiveness in his eyes spoke even plainer than speech. Paul had been deceived, and he had been deceived. Why had he demeaned himself by asking a fellow like Newall to shake hands with him? He ought to have known better from past experience.
"You understand?" went on Newall in the same bitter tone. "Oh, yes, I see you do. You struck me a blow. The marks of it are still here, you see"—pointing to his lip, which was discoloured and cut. "I'm glad of it. It kept me awake last night, thinking of you. And when I looked at myself in the glass this morning, I thought of you again. It's nice to have a memento of your friends, don't you think so?"
Stanley did not answer. What answer was possible to these mocking jibes? Paul was silent, too. All power of speech seemed taken from him.
"Well, I mean having that blow back—the cowardly blow you gave me over Percival's shoulder. I could give it to you now"—his fist was clenched as though he would have dearly liked to make good his words—"but that would only mean that one or the other would be sent to the den from which I've just rescued you. That would be idiotic and make matters worse."
"You mean to say that you don't wish to end the quarrel between us. You wish to fight it out to the bitter end?" demanded Stanley, at last finding voice.