Then Crow spoke up: “Let me go with him,” he pleaded.
The bullet-headed man shook his head. “You have almost as much to answer for as Melun,” he objected.
“No,” he continued. “Ross is the man. We can trust Ross.”
Ross came forward as though the task of watching Melun was not an unwelcome one.
“Yes, boys,” he said, “you can trust me. I will go.”
“Then pull him together a bit,” ordered the bullet-headed man.
Thereupon they roughly plucked Melun's clothes into shape, sponged his face clear of blood, set his hat on his head, and put his stick into his hand.
By this time he had practically recovered himself. He gave one quick look of intense hatred towards Westerham and one quick, vindictive glance in the direction of the man with the bullet head.
“Very well,” he said, in a rather shaky voice. “If it must be, it must be. You are fools to believe your enemy, but I cannot prevent you. If you must know all, you will probably lose all; well—so much the worse for you.”
He jerked his waistcoat down and assumed a certain air of bravado. In spite of himself, Westerham could not but admire the man. At this point Crow urged again that he should be allowed to accompany Melun. Ross made no objection, and he was given leave to go.