"Count on me for that!" exclaimed Lord James.
"It's where this girl—Miss Leslie—ought to come in, if she's worth anything," thrust Griffith.
"But—but, my dear sir, you quite fail to understand. It will never do to so much as hint to her that he has failed."
"Failed!" retorted Griffith. "When she herself forced him to take the first drink—Don't cut in! If you know Tommy as well as you ought, you know he would never have taken that drink in the condition he was in—not a single drop of anything containing alcohol! No! the girl forced him—she must have. He's dead in love with her. He'd butt his head against a stone wall, if she told him to. Hell!—just when he had his chance at last!"
"His chance?"
"I've been figuring it as a chance. Supposing he had pulled off this big Zariba Dam, he'd have felt that he had made good. It might have brought around that change the doctors tell about. Don't you see? It might have fixed that broken cog—straightened him up somehow for good. But now—hell!"
Griffith bent over, with a groan.
"Gad!" murmured Lord James. After a long pause, he added slowly, "But, I assure you, regarding Miss Leslie, it will never do to tell her. If she hears of this, he will have no chance—none! That occurred to me immediately I inferred the deplorable truth. I told her we were thinking of going with you to the bridge—Michamac."
"You did? Say, I thought Britishers were slow, but you got your finger on the right button first shove. It's the very thing for him—change, open air, the bridge—Wait a minute, though! With the chances more than even that it's Tommy's own—Until he makes good on the dam, nobody would take his word against that lallapaloozer's."
"I—er—beg pardon. I fail to take you," said Lord James.