"And now"—Havelock rose—"I'd like your opinion."
"About what?"
"Well, can't you see the beautiful sanity of Ferguson?"
"No, I can't," snapped Chantry. "I think he was wrong, both in the beginning and in the end. But I will admit he was not a coward. I respect him, but I do not think, at any point, he was right—except perhaps in 'doing' the coroner."
"That settles it, then," said Havelock. And he started towards the door.
"Settles what, in heaven's name?"
"What I came to have settled. I shan't tell her. If I could have got one other decent citizen—and I confess you were my only chance—to agree with me that Ferguson was right,—right about his fellow passengers on the Argentina, right about tow-head on the track,—I'd have gone to her, I think. I'd rather like to ruin her life, if I could."
A great conviction approached Chantry just then. He felt the rush of it through his brain.
"No," he cried. "Ferguson loved her too much. He wouldn't like that—not as you'd put it to her."
Havelock thought a moment. "No," he said in turn; but his "no" was very humble. "He wouldn't. I shall never do it. But, my God, how I wanted to!"