“Yes.”
“I know something of men,” said Hugh in his grand way.
“You can no more know a man in calm weather than you can know a ship. I myself am not aware what a villain I could be, if it were worth my while. I’ll try to keep straight. But don’t trust any one else with your secret. The blabbing tongue—the ears of the police—that heroic woman had up for perjury—I need say no more.”
Hugh walked about the room, agitated.
“You are right. Of course I knew it in a vague sort of way—but I have been driven half crazy—the strain of the last month—unimaginable—God knows how I pulled through. You are the first man I have spoken to. I couldn’t bear to let you think ill of her—and your kind, honest mug was so refreshing to me—I couldn’t help it. I never realised clearly before, that to save her from penal servitude I must consent to stand by and see the world throw mud at her. What a complicated wreck one’s life becomes as soon as it leaves the rails!”
“Don’t make yourself miserable with false analogies,” said Cahusac, philosophically. “I’m sick of the rails and I want to get off them. For that reason I asked what your plans were—I meant for the immediate future.”
“I shall give up the bar,” said Hugh, with a shudder, “at least criminal work. I said I was a ruined man. That’s why.”
“You persist in misunderstanding,” said the other with a smile. “You forget I came to ask a favour—I am thinking of going abroad for a holiday, taking it now instead of in the inevitable August. Wife doesn’t want to go. I am companionless. Will you take pity on me?”
Hugh’s impulsive nature responded to all the motives of the kindly act. He seized Cahusac’s hand.
“I won’t thank you. There are some deeds of friendship beyond thanks. I’ll come with you all the more gladly now that I have told you. But I should like to see the Merriams before we start.”