“Too late,” muttered Blake. “See here, Winthrope, there’s no use lying about it. You’re going out mighty soon. See if you can’t die like a man.”
“Die! . . . Gawd, but I can’t die–I can’t die–Ow! it burns!”
He flung up a hand, and sought to tear at his wounds.
“Hold hard!” cried Blake, catching the hand in an iron grip.
Something in his touch, or the tone of command, seemed to cower the wretched man into a state of abject submission.
“S’elp me, I’ll confess!–I’ll confess all!” he babbled. “The stones are sewed in the stomach pad; I ’ad to take ’em hout of their settings, and melt up the gold.” He paused, and a cunning smile stole over his distorted features. “Ho, wot a bloomin’ lark! Valet plays the gent, an’ they never ’as a hinkling! Mr. Cecil Winthrope, hif you please, an’ a ’int of a title–wot a lark! ’Awkings, me lad, you’re a gay ’oaxer! Wot a lark! wot a lark!”
Again there was a pause. The breath of the wounded man came in labored gasps. There was an ominous rattling in his throat. Yet once again he rallied, and this time his eyes turned to Miss Leslie, bright with an agonized consciousness of her presence and of all his guilt and shame.
His voice shrilled out in quavering appeal: “Don’t–don’t look at me, miss! I tried to make myself a gentleman; God knows I tried! I fought my way up out of the East End–out of that hell–and none ever lifted finger to help me. I educated myself like a scholar–then the stock sharks cheated me of my savings–out of the last penny; and I had to take service. My God! a valet–his Grace’s valet, and I a scholar! Do you wonder the devil got into me? Do you–”
Blake’s deep voice, firm but strangely husky, broke in upon and silenced the cry of agony: “There, I guess you’ve said enough.”
“Enough!–and last night–My God! to be such a beast! The devil tempted me–aye, and he’s paid me out in my own coin! I’m done for! God ha’ mercy on me!–God ha’ mercy–”