say, until we are forced to own up."

But Granger was not listening to what Spurling said; he was tortured
with the truth of one sentence which he had heard that night. "If he
didn't actually kill him, it wasn't for lack of the desire." How had
Robert Pilgrim guessed that? As he himself had confessed to
Strangeways, he had been tempted at first to let him go on his way
unwarned, and take his chances of falling through the ice. Eventually
he had cautioned him, but so late and in such a manner that his words
had only had the effect of skilfully forwarding his earlier base
intention. _If he had not actually killed him, it was not for lack of
the desire._ And by how much was he superior to this man, crouching at
his side, whom he had so often condemned and had again condemned that
night?

Spurling answered that question for him. Rising to his feet and
stretching his cramped arms and legs, he remarked, "Well, of course,
if you won't take me into your confidence, there's nothing more to be
said. If you don't want to tell me, I won't trouble you by asking
again; but it seems to me that we're both in the one boat now."

This new sense of equality with his companion, though it was only an
equality in crime, had suddenly brought about a change for the better
in Spurling. He carried himself freely, in the old defiant manner, and
had lost his attitude of cringing subservience. At first Granger had
it in his heart to hate him for the change, knowing, as he did, that
it arose from an unhesitating acceptance of this chance-heard,
unproved assertion of his own kindred degradation. But soon the hatred
gave way to another emotion, which, perhaps, had its genesis in a
memory of those earlier days, when this man had been willing to stand
between him and the world. In gazing upon him, looking so big and
powerful, he was comforted with a sense that his misery was shared. A
latter-day writer has wisely recorded, "I have observed that the mere
knowing that other people have been tried as we have been tried is a
consolation to us, and that we are relieved by the assurance that our
sufferings are not special and peculiar. In the worst of maladies, the
healing effect which is produced by the visit of a friend who can
simply say, 'I have endured all that,' is most marked."

And it was this consolation which Granger now began to experience in
Spurling's presence.

Though the separate circumstances which lay behind their common
accusation wer