"Is it good-by?" came the passionate question.
"No, not good-by. It is an alliance, Winter, a wiping of the slate. You don't understand, perhaps, that we are both to blame. But you can take my hand, old man. There is no stain of blood on it. I did not murder my wife. I am her avenger, her pitiless, implacable avenger—so pitiless, so implacable, that I may have erred in my harshness. For Heaven's sake, Winter, believe me, and take my hand!"
The man's magnetism was irresistible. Despite the crushing weight of proof accumulated against him, the claims of old friendship were not to be ignored. Winter took the proffered hand and squeezed it with a vehemence that not only showed the tension of his feelings but also brought tears of real anguish to Furneaux's eyes.
"I only asked you for a friendly grip, Winter," he complained. "You have been more than kind. No matter what happens, don't offer to shake hands with me again for twelve months at least."
There was no comprehending him, and Winter abandoned the effort. Moreover, Clarke's puzzled brows were bent on them.
"An alliance implies confidence," he said, and the official mask fell on his bluff features. "If you can honestly——"
Furneaux laughed, with just a faint touch of that impish humor that the other knew so well.
"Not Winter, but Didymus!" he cried. "Well, then, let us proceed to the confounding of poor Clarke. Peste! he deserves a better fate, for he has worked like a Trojan. But leave Osborne to me. Have no fear—I shall explain, a little to him, all to you."
Clarke writhed with jealousy when Winter beckoned to him. While his chief was paying the cabman, he jeered at Furneaux.
"I had a notion——" he began, but the other caught his arm confidentially.