o 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?"

CHAPTER XVI

Boyce left Wellingsford that afternoon, and for many months I heard
little about him. His astonishing avowal had once more turned
topsy-turvy my conception of his real nature. I had to reconstruct the
man, a very complicated task. I had to reconcile in him all kinds of
opposites--the lusty brute and the sentimental lover; the physical
coward and the baresark hero; the man with hell in his soul and the
debonair gentleman. After a vast deal of pondering, I arrived not very
much nearer a solution of the problem. The fact remained, however, that
I found myself in far closer sympathy with him than ever before. After
all that he had said, I should have had a heart of stone if it had not
been stirred to profound pity. I had seen an instance both of his
spell-bound cowardice and of his almost degrad