Completely and irrevocably he was in this man's hands. During the past twenty-four hours the grave old fellow, who had faced death a hundred times, had passed through a crisis of agony and despair. He hated himself, and would even have welcomed death, would have courted it at his own hands, had not these jeers of the doctor's rung in his ears. And, after all, he had decided that suicide was only a coward's death. The man who takes his own life to avoid exposure is always despised by his friends.
So he had lived, and had come down there in response to the doctor's request over the telephone, resolved to face the music, if for the last time.
He sat in the shabby old arm-chair and firmly refused to carry out the doctor's suggestion. But Weirmarsh, with his innate cunning, presented to him a picture of exposure and degradation which held him horrified.
"I should have thought, Sir Hugh, that in face of what must inevitably result you would not risk exposure," he said. "Of course, it lies with you entirely," he added with an unconcerned air.
"I'm thinking of my family," the old officer said slowly.
"Of the disgrace if the truth were known, eh?"
"No; of the suspicion, nay, ruin and imprisonment, that would fall upon another person," replied Sir Hugh.
"No suspicion can be aroused if you are careful, I repeat," exclaimed Weirmarsh impatiently. "Not a breath of suspicion has ever fallen upon you up to the present, has it? No, because you have exercised foresight and have followed to the letter the plans I made. I ask you, when you have followed my advice have you ever gone wrong—have you ever taken one false step?"
"Never—since the first," replied the old soldier in a hard, bitter tone.
"Then I urge you to continue to follow the advice I give you, namely, to agree to the terms."