And suddenly he remembered that this man was Jim's father—and the father of the young girl he was in love with; and the shock drove every drop of blood out of his heart and cheeks.
Ghastly, staring, he stood confronting Herold; and the latter, leaning heavily, shoulder against the wall, stared back at him.
"I could have gone on working for you," he said, "trying to save enough to make restitution—some day. I have already saved part of it. Look at me—look at my children—at the way we live, and you'll understand how I have saved. But I have saved part of what I took. I'll give you that much before you go—before I go, too."
His breath came heavily, unevenly; he cleared his eyes with a work-stained hand, fashioned for pens and ledgers.
"You were abroad when I—did what I did. Vyse was merciless. I told him I could put it back if he'd give me the
chance. But a thief was a thief to him—particularly when his own pocket was involved. He meant to send me to prison. The judge held him—he was his father-in-law—and he was an old man with a wife and children of his own."
Herold was silent for a moment, and his gaze became vague and remote, then he lifted his head sharply:
"A man makes one slip like that and the world damns him forever. And I tell you, Marche, that I am not dishonest by nature or in my character. God alone knows why I took those securities, meaning, of course, to return them, as all the poor, damned fools do mean when they do what I did. But Vyse made it a condition that I was to leave
the country, and there was no chance of restitution unless I could remain in New York and do what I knew how to do—no chance, Marche—and so fortune ebbed, and my wife died, and the old judge saw me working on the water-front in Norfolk one day, and gave me this place. That is all."
"Why did you feign illness?" asked Marche, in an altered voice.