And suddenly, without warning, Everard’s strength failed him.  It was like the snapping of a stretched wire.  “Oh, man!” he said, and covered his face.

Bernard’s arm was round him in a moment, a staunch, upholding arm.  “Everard—­dear old chap—­can’t you tell me what it is?” he said.  “God knows I’ll die sooner than let you down.”

Everard did not answer.  His breathing was hard, spasmodic, intensely painful to hear.  He had the look of a man stricken in his pride.

For a space Bernard stood dumbly supporting him.  Then at length very quietly he moved and guided him to a chair.

“Take your time!” he said gently.  “Sit down!”

Mutely Everard submitted.  The agony of that night had stripped his manhood of its reserve.  He sat crouched, his head bowed upon his clenched hands.

“Wait while I fetch you a drink!” Bernard said.

He was gone barely two minutes.  Returning, he fastened the window and drew the curtain across.  Then he bent again over the huddled figure in the chair.

“Take a mouthful of this, old fellow!  It’ll pull you together.”

Everard groped outwards with a quivering hand.  “Give me strength—­to shoot myself,” he muttered.

The words were only just audible, but Bernard caught them.  “No,—­give you strength to play the game,” he said, and held the glass he had brought to his brother’s lips.

Everard drank with closed eyes and sat forward again motionless.  His face was bloodless.  “I’m sorry, St. Bernard,” he said, after a moment.  “Forgive me for manhandling you—­and all the rest, if you can!” He drew a long, hard breath.  “Thanks for everything!  Good-night!”

“But I’m not leaving you,” said Bernard, gently.  “Not like this.”

“Like what?” Everard opened his eyes with an abrupt effort.  “Oh, I’m all right.  Don’t you bother about me!” he said.

Their eyes met.  For a second longer Bernard stood over him.  Then he went down upon his knees by his side.  “I swear I won’t leave you,” he said, “until you’ve told me this trouble of yours.”

Everard shook his head instantly, but his hand went out and closed upon the arm that had upheld him.  He was beginning to recover his habitual self-command.  “It’s no good, old chap.  I can’t,” he said.  And added almost involuntarily, “That’s—­the hell of it!”

“But you can,” Bernard said.  He still looked him straight in the eyes.  “You can and you will.  Call it a confession—­I’ve heard a good many in my time—­and tell me everything!”

“Confess to you!” A hint of surprise showed in Everard’s heavy eyes.  “You’d better not tempt me to do that,” he said.  “You might be sorry afterwards.”

“I will risk it,” Bernard said.

“Risk being made an accessory to—­what you may regard as a crime?” Everard said.  “Forgive me—­you’re a parson, I know,—­but are you sure you can play the part?”

Bernard smiled a little at the question.  “Yes, I can,” he said.  “A confession is sacred—­whatever it is.  And I swear to you—­by God in Heaven—­to treat it as such.”