"Draycott turned out a perfect trump. We had a pretty tough time--the landlady here, who's a dear, good old soul, the doctor, and I between us--in pulling him through; Dodwell had used him cruelly, he will carry some of the scars with him to the grave--but it was a labour of love. I hadn't been so happy for I don't know how long; I had never thought I should be so happy again, as I was as I sat by Draycott's bedside, sometimes all night and sometimes all day, watching him, slowly, come back to life again. You see, it was the first thing I had done of which I hadn't cause to be ashamed for ever so long. Directly he was safe he told me the whole story, which I expect you heard to-night. He's behaved like a trump."
"I suppose it doesn't strike you that, in any degree, or in any sense, you've behaved like a trump?"
"I had a motive for what I did. Draycott's father is a big bug over in New South Wales. They've been telegraphing to each other, he and his father, spending no end of money on wires. It seems that the old man heard that he was missing and got flurried; but they've made that all right by telegram. Draycott's going back to his father; he is the only son, his father has big interests, and wants him, and he hasn't made a very good thing of soldiering; so Draycott's going back. And, what is much more--to me--I'm going with him."
"Sydney! Really?"
"Very really--thanks to Draycott. I couldn't stay in England--now; and I wouldn't. I've made such a mess of things that I shouldn't be able to breathe if I stayed. I want to put the old things behind me, and to get into a new world, and a new life."
There was silence; he seemed to be straining his eyes with the effort to see the new life for which he longed.
"And that means?"
"That means that the man you knew is dead."
"Is he? I wonder! Sydney?" He did not speak, but he looked at her. "Have you ever thought of me during all you've gone through?"
"Before I answer your question, as I will do presently, let me say what I've got to say. I'm a criminal."