I would have refused pointblank, even if
it had meant the end of everything."
"I believe you would," Babbacombe said. The sternness had gone out of
his voice, and a certain weariness had taken its place. "But you haven't
quite hit the truth of the matter. Since you have guessed so much you
had better know the whole. I did not do this thing by request. I
undertook it voluntarily. If I had not done so, some other
means--possibly some less discreet means--would have been employed to
gain the same end."
"I see!" West's head was bent. He seemed to be closely examining the
marble on which his arms rested. "Well," he said abruptly, "you've told
me the truth. I will do the same to you. This business has got to end. I
have done my part towards bringing that about. And now you must do
yours. You will have to prosecute, whether you like it or not. It is the
only way."
"What?" Babbacombe said sharply.
West turned at last. The glare had gone out of his eyes--they were cold
and still as an Arctic sky.
"I think we understand one another," he said. "I see you don't like your
job. But you'll stick to it, for all that. There must be an end--a
painless end if possible, without regrets. She has got to realise that
I'm a swindler to the marrow of my bones, that I couldn't turn to and
lead a decent, honourable life--even for love of her."
The words fell grimly, but there was no mockery in the steely eyes, no
feeling of any sort.
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