"That I've heard gents speak in my time, and I reckon you're one."
The man started; at first he was inclined to bolt; then as the light of a lamp shone on Brack's face he saw it was honest, kindly, full of charity, and through it he knew there was a big heart inside the rough body.
"You are right," he said. "I was a gentleman, I hope I am one still, although I have lived such a life that the wonder is I am not a beast."
Brack looked hard at him; from his face his gaze wandered over his body, then he looked at his hands; one was bound up, the other had marks on it, deep marks, like the marks of teeth. Brack made up his mind.
"Don't move," he said, "when I tell you something. I'm a man, not a fiend, and I've an innocent brother over there," and he jerked his hand in the direction of the moor far away. "Maybe you've seen him."
The man gasped—this old sailor knew! Should he—no, the face was honest, he would trust him.
"Perhaps I have," he said.
"Are you the man that throttled that bloodhound?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because if you are I'd like to clasp yer hand and say I think yer brave."