"'Let him loose, Quarren,' said Sprowl."
He waited for a full minute, watching the struggling men in silent contempt. Then with a shrug he went out into the hall, leisurely put on his hat, picked up his stick, opened the door, and sauntered out into the darkness.
"Now," breathed Quarren fiercely, "you play the man or I'm through with you! He's gone and he won't come back—I'll see to that! And it's up to you to show what you're made of!"
Ledwith, freed, stood white and breathing hard for a few moments. Then a dull flush suffused his thin face; he looked down, stood with hanging head, until Quarren laid a hand on his shoulder.
"It's up to you, Ledwith," he said quietly. "I don't blame you for losing your head a moment, but if you mean what you said, I should say that this is your chance.... And if I were you I'd simply go upstairs and speak to her.... She's been through hell.... She's in it still. But you're out; and you can stay out if you choose. There's no need to wallow if you don't want to. You're not in very good shape yet, but you're a man. And now, if you do care for her, I really believe it's up to you.... Will you go upstairs?"
Ledwith turned and went out into the familiar hall. Then, as though dazed, resting one thin hand on the rail, he mounted the stairway, head hanging, feeling his way blindly back toward all that life had ever held for him, but which he had been too weak to keep or even to defend.
Quarren waited for a while; Ledwith did not return. After a few minutes an excited maid came down, stared at him, then, reassured, opened the door for him with a smile. And he went out into the starlight.
He had been walking for only a few moments when he overtook Sprowl sauntering down a lane; and the latter glanced around and, recognising him, halted.
"Where's the other hero?" he asked.
"Probably discussing you with the woman he is likely to remarry."