"I—not like Miss Quentin? Absurd!"
"Well, that's what she thinks, anyway," persisted Jerry. "She told me so, and she seemed really sorry about it. She believes you don't want to be friends with her."
"Miss Quentin's friendship would be delightful. But—you don't understand, Jerry—it's one of the delights I must forego."
When Errington spoke with such a definite air of finality, his young secretary knew from experience that he might as well drop the subject. He could get nothing further out of Max, once the latter had adopted that tone over any matter. So Jerry, being wise in his generation, held his peace.
Suddenly Errington faced round and laid his hands on the boy's shoulder.
"Jerry," he said, and his voice shook with some deep emotion. "Thank God—thank Him every day of your life—that you're free and untrammelled. All the world's yours if you choose to take it. Some of us are shackled—our arms tied behind our backs. And oh, my God! How they ache to be free!"
The blue eyes were full of a keen anguish, the stern mouth wry with pain. Never before had Jerry seen him thus with the mask off, and he felt as though he were watching a soul's agony unveiled.
"Max . . . dear old chap . . ." he stammered. "Can't I help?"
With an obvious effort Errington regained his composure, but his face was grey as he answered:—
"Neither you nor any one else, Jerry, boy. I must dree my weird, as the Scotch say. And that's the hard part of it—to be your own judge and jury. A man ought not to be compelled to play the double role of victim and executioner."