"One is to look after the old mother—"
"That goes without promising," said I.
"The other is to—what shall I say?—to rehabilitate my memory in the eyes of Betty Connor. She may hear all kinds of things about me—some true, others false—I have my enemies. She has heard things already. I didn't know it till our last meeting here. There's no one else on God's earth can do what I want but you. Do you think I'm putting you into an impossible position?"
"I don't think so," said I. "Go on."
"Well—there's not much more to be said. Try to make her realise that, whatever may be my faults—my crimes, if it comes to that—I've done my damndest out there to make reparation. By God! I have," he cried, in a sudden flash of passion. "See that she realises it. And—" he thumped the hidden identification disc, "tell her that she is the only woman that has ever really mattered in the whole of my blasted life."
He threw his half-smoked cigarette into the fire-place and walked over to the sideboard, where stood decanters and syphon.
"May I help myself to a drink?"
"Certainly," said I.
He gulped down half a whisky and soda and turned on me.
"You promise?"