“Bérard has confessed.”
“God! Hugh! Then—then you know my secret!” he gasped hoarsely, looking at his companion with wild, staring eyes.
“I do—at least, a portion of it,” was the calm reply. “But you and I, Jack, are friends, and before believing anything base of you I seek an explanation from your own lips.”
The artist paced up and down his studio with quick, short steps, endeavouring to control his agitation. Suddenly he halted and raised his head; his face was flushed, and the small mouth was closed firmly.
“I will trust you, Hugh. My life will depend upon your silence,” he said in a low, distinct voice.
“I shall observe your confidence; if you doubt me, do not speak.”
“I do not doubt you—I only doubt myself.”
And he began to pace the room again, with head bent and hands clasped behind him.
Hugh waited.
“I know you will loathe me—that you will never again clasp my hand in friendship,” said Egerton, as he walked up and down, with an agitation in his manner which increased as he went on. “You may tell me so, too, if you like, for I hate myself. There were no extenuating circumstances in the crime which I committed—none—”