h me to believe that you did this thing in cold blood--that you
deliberately meant to do it?"

"Certainly I meant to do it," said West.

"Why?" said Babbacombe.

Again he gave the non-committal shrug, no more. There was almost a
fiendish look in his eyes, as if somewhere in his soul a demon leaped
and jeered.

"Tell me why," Babbacombe persisted.

"Why should I tell you?" said West.

Babbacombe hesitated for an instant; then gravely, kindly, he made
reply:

"For the sake of the friendship that has been between us. I had not the
faintest idea that you were in need of money. Why couldn't you tell me?"

West made a restless movement. For the first time his hard stare shifted
from Babbacombe's face.

"Why go into these details?" he questioned harshly. "I warned you at the
outset what to expect. I am a swindler to the backbone. The sooner you
bundle me back to where I came from, the better. I sha'n't run away this
time."

"I shall not prosecute," Babbacombe said.

"You will not!" West blazed into sudden ferocity. He had the look of a
wild animal at bay. "You are to prosecute!" he exclaimed violently. "Do
you hear? I won't have any more of your damned charity! I'll go down
into my own limbo and stay there, without let or hindrance from you or
any other man. If you are fool enough to offer me another chance, as you
call it, I am not fool enough to take it. The only thing I'll take from
you is justice. Understand?"

"You wish me to prosecute?" Babbacombe said.

"I do!"

The words came with passionate force. West stood in almost a threatening
attitude. His eyes shone in the gathering dusk like the eyes of a
crouching beast--a beast that has been sorely wounded, but that will
fight to the last.

The man's whole demeanour puzzled Babbacombe--his total lack of shame or
penitence, his savagery of resentment. There was something behind it
all--something he could not fathom, that baffled him, however he sought
to approach it. In days gone by he had wondered if the fellow had a
heart. That wonder was still in his mind. He himself had utterly failed
to reach it if it existed. And Cynthia--even Cynthia--had failed. Yet,
somehow, vaguely, he had a feeling that neither he nor Cynthia had
understood.

"I don't know what to say to you, West," he said at length.

"Why say anything?" said West.

"Because," Babbacombe said slowly, "I don't believe--I can't
believe--that simply for the sake of a paltry sum like that you