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Updated: June 14, 2025
"Not at all," said Piers. "I came away by the first train I could catch." "And left her to her trouble!" Crowther's wide brow was a little drawn. There was even a hint of sternness in his steady eyes. "Just so," said Piers. "I left her to mourn in peace." "Didn't you so much as write a line of explanation?" Crowther's voice was troubled, but it held the old kindliness, the old human sympathy.
"I came here last night from Marseilles." Crowther's eyes rested on the smiling face with its proud, patrician features with the look of a man examining a perfect bronze. "It's very kind of you to welcome me like this," he said. "I was feeling a stranger in a strange land as I came up that path." "I've been watching you," said Piers. "I liked the business-like way you tackled it. It was British."
He refused to try his luck elsewhere, but went arrogantly away with his hand through Crowther's arm. "He'll come back to-morrow," observed a shrewd American. "And the next day, and the next. He's just the sort that helps to keep this establishment going. They'll pick him clean." But he was wrong. Though elated by victory, Piers was not drawn by the gambling vice.
Then, with her hand in his, she whispered chokingly, "I feel as if as if I had failed him just when he needed me most. He was in prison, and I left him there." Crowther's steady eyes looked into hers with kindness that was full of sustaining comfort. "He has broken out of his prison," he said. "Don't fret don't fret!" Her lips were quivering painfully. She turned her face aside.
Sir Beverley grunted again. "And when and where did you make his acquaintance?" he enquired, with a stern, unsparing scrutiny of the calm face opposite. "We met in Australia," said Crowther. "It must be six years or more ago." "Australia's a big place," observed Sir Beverley. Crowther's slow smile appeared. "Yes, sir, it is.
He laid a very steady hand upon Piers' shoulder with a compassionate glance at the stony young face which a few minutes before had been so full of abounding life. "It comes hard to you, eh, lad?" he said. Piers stirred, almost made as if he would toss the friendly hand away; but in the end he suffered it, though he would not meet Crowther's eyes. "You owe it to her," urged Crowther gently.
"I'm a selfish brute if I let you," he said, irresolutely. "You can't help yourself, my son." Crowther turned calm eyes upon him. "And now just sit down here and write a line home to say what you are going to do!" He had cleared a space upon the table; he pulled forward a chair. "Oh, I can't! I can't!" said Piers quickly. But Crowther's hand was on his shoulder. He pressed him down. "Do it, lad!
"So this is a friend of yours, is it? How is it I've never heard of him before?" "We lost sight of each other," explained Piers, pulling forward a chair between them and dropping into it. "But that state of affairs is not going to happen again. How long are you over for, Crowther?" "Possibly a year, possibly more." Again Crowther's eyes were upon him, critical but kindly.
But one night an evil fate befell him. He was forced to fight against his will; and he killed his man. It was an absolutely unforeseen result. He took heavy odds, and naturally he matched them with all the skill at his command. But it was a fair fight. I testify to that. He took no mean advantage." Crowther's eyes were gazing beyond Avery.
A second later he was sunk in Crowther's chair with his head in his hands, sobbing convulsively, painfully, uncontrollably, in an agony that tore like a living thing at the very foundations of his being. A smaller man than Crowther might have been at a loss to deal with such distress, but Crowther was ready. He had seen men in extremities of suffering before. He knew how to ease a crushing burden.
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