that his temper suddenly gave, his hold on himself was broken. "But
it is of mine, by God!" he cried.

Our eyes met for a moment; then he turned his head away, and a long
silence followed. At last he spoke in a low voice.

"I call other people fools--I'm a fool myself. I can't hold my tongue. I
oughtn't to be at large. But it's pretty hard to bottle it all up
sometimes." He laid his hand on my knee. "I shall be obliged if you'll
forget that little remark of mine, Austin."

"I can't forget it. I can take no notice of it," I said.

"It's not merely that I gave myself away--which, after all, doesn't
matter as you happen to be a loyal fellow--I know that" (he smiled for a
moment), "having tried to pump you myself. But what I said was against a
pledge I had given."

"I wish you hadn't said it--most heartily. I'll treat it as unsaid--so
far as my allegiance allows."

"Yes, I see that. She must come first with you, of course."

"And with you, too, I hope?"

"In my sort of case a man fights for himself."

"I'll say one thing to you--since you have spoken. You'd much better go
away--before that year is up."

He made an impatient gesture with his hands. "I can't!" Then he leaned
forward and half-whispered, "You put your money on Fillingford?"

"I don't intend to tell you what I think--if you can't gather it from
what I've said already."

Again his laugh came--again sounding more like bravado than real
confidence. "You're wrong, I can tell you that," he said. "I shouldn't
be here if I wasn't sure of that."

I had better have said no more, but temptation overcame me. "I don't
think you are sure of it."

I expected him to be very angry, I looked for some bluster. None came.
He shrugged his shoulders and wearily rubbed his brow with his hand. The
case was very plain; he had been told, but he was not sure that he had
been told the truth. Many people might have told him that Jenny meant to
marry Fillingford. Only one on earth could have assured him that she did
not. The assurance had been forthcoming--not in so many words, perhaps,
yet plainly enough to be an assurance for all that. But was it an
assurance of truth?

It grew late, and I took my leave. Octon put on his hat and walked to
the gate with me. "Come and see me again," he said. "I'm always ready
for you--after dinner. A talk does a man good--even if he talks like a
fool."

"Yes, I'll come again--not that I've been very comforting."

"No, you haven't. But