“But what about a thing like this?” said I, tapping Colonel Dacre’s letter.

“That’s all right,” he answered grimly.  “That’s when I know what I’m facing.  That’s deliberate pot-hunting.  It’s saving face as the Chinese say.  It’s doing any damned thing that will put me right with myself.”

He got up and swung about the room.  I envied him, I would have given a thousand pounds to do the same just for a few moments.  But I was stuck in my confounded chair, deprived of physical outlet.  Suddenly he came to a halt and stood once more over me.

“Now you know what kind of a fellow I am, what do you think of me?”

It was a brutal question to fling at my head.  It gave me no time to co-ordinate my ideas.  What was one to make of a man avowedly subject to fits of the most despicable cowardice from the consequences of which he used any unscrupulous craftiness to extricate himself, and yet was notorious in his achievement of deeds of the most reckless courage?  It is a problem to which I have devoted all the months occupied in waiting this book.  How the dickens could I solve it at a minute’s notice?  The situation was too blatant, too raw, too near bedrock, too naked and unashamed, for me to take refuge in platitudinous generalities of excuse.  The bravest of men know Fear.  They know him pretty intimately.  But they manage to kick him to Hades by the very reason of their being brave men.  I had to take Leonard Boyce as I found him.  And I must admit that I found him a tragically miserable man.  That is how I answered his question—­in so many words.

“You’re not far wrong,” said he.

He picked up cap and stick.

“When I get up to town I shall make my will.  I’ve never worried about it before.  Can I appoint you my executor?”

“Certainly,” said I.

“I’m very grateful.  I’ll assure you a fireworks sort of finish, so that you shan’t be ashamed.  And—­I don’t ask impossibilities—­I can’t hold you to your previous promise—­but what about Betty Connor?”

“You may count,” said I, “on my acting like an officer and a gentleman, and, if I may say so, like a Christian.”

He said:  “Thank you, Meredyth.  Good-bye.”  Then he stuck on his cap, brought his fingers to the peak in salute and marched to the door.

“Boyce!” I cried sharply.

He turned.  “Yes?”

“Aren’t you going to shake hands with me?”

He retraced the few steps to my chair.

“I didn’t know whether it would be—­” he paused, seeking for a word—­“whether it would be agreeable.”

Then I broke down.  The strain had been too great for my sick man’s nerves.  I forgot all about the brutality of his bull-neck, for he faced me in all his gallant manhood and there was a damnable expression in his eyes like that of a rated dog.  I stretched out my hand.

“My dear good fellow,” I cried, “what the hell are you talking about?”