“We were friends,” went on Hugh, “school friends, college friends. Peter always hauled me out of scrapes. He stuck to me through thick and thin. I believe this last time it was as much for my old mother’s sake as mine that [Pg 275]he stood by me. She was very fond of Peter. I said,” a slow colour mounted in the white face, “that it was for her sake that I let him do it; it wasn’t—at least, not only that. I was a coward. She died about a year after Peter had been in prison. I might have come forward then. I didn’t; I went abroad. I came back to England only about six months ago.” He stopped.
“Anything else?” asked Father O’Sullivan gravely and tenderly.
“That’s all,” said Hugh wearily, “at least, with regard to that. I’d like Peter to know that, cur though I’ve been to him, I’ve always been fond of him. Tell him, if you can, Father, that I’ve tried to run straight since, because of him and what he did. I wasn’t getting on badly, but now——”
“He shall be told,” said Father O’Sullivan.
“Do you know where he is?” asked Hugh, “You speak as if you knew him.”
“I’ve heard of him,” replied Father O’Sullivan, “and though I don’t know where he is now, he shall be found.”
Again Hugh was silent. After a moment he spoke.
“If you’ve got all that down, Sister, I’ll sign it. You’re sure it will be all right, Father; that it will let every one know, and clear him entirely?”
“Perfectly sure.”
The Sister put the paper by Hugh’s hand, and he signed a straggling, wavering signature. He let the pen fall. Then he looked up at the Sister.