"There you have it," cried Pendleton. "That's it, Kirk! I've stood aside, considering myself unworthy, and allowed a fellow to slip by me who is as colorless as water. Allan Morris is no more fit to be her husband than—" at loss for a simile he halted for a moment, and then burst out: "Oh, he's impossible!"
"So far as we have tested him, certainly," agreed Ashton-Kirk, "he has shown no great strength of character."
"He's acted like a frightened child all through this affair. He's mixed up in it, and through his weakness allowed Edyth to also entangle herself. Again and again he's run to her, or called to her, to tell her of some fresh complication that he'd gotten his frightened self into; and to protect him, she has dared and done what would have frightened an ordinary woman into fits."
"I think," observed Ashton-Kirk, "that she has realized his position, to some extent, at least. The fact that he is weak has, I think, dawned upon her already; she may also see his evident selfishness before long. If she does—why, might there not still be some hope for you, Pen?"
Pendleton shook his head in the gloom.
"I'm afraid not," said he, hopelessly. "Somehow a weak man makes a great appeal to the woman who has grown to care for him. He arouses her mother instinct. And Edyth is so strong that her pity—"
"May induce her to do her utmost to see him through this trouble," interrupted Ashton-Kirk. "But it may not carry her much further. When once the thing is over, a reaction may set in. Who knows?"
But Pendleton refused to be comforted. For a long time they talked of Edyth Vale, Morris, and the killing of Hume. Finally Pendleton said:
"I suppose we can't smoke here to-night, can we?"
"No; the lights might be seen; and we can't tell what sharp eyes are watching the place."