Jerry felt the arm against his own twitch, and continued relentlessly:—­

“I believe you’ve been snubbing her.  You know, old man, you have a sort of horribly lordly, touch-me-not air about you when you choose.  But I don’t see why you should choose with Miss Quentin.  She’s such an awfully good sort.”

“Yes,” agreed Errington.  “Miss Quentin is quite charming.”

“She thinks you don’t like her,” pursued Jerry, after a moment’s pause.

“I—­not like Miss Quentin?  Absurd!”

“Well, that’s what she thinks, anyway,” persisted Jerry.  “She told me so, and she seemed really sorry about it.  She believes you don’t want to be friends with her.”

“Miss Quentin’s friendship would be delightful.  But—­you don’t understand, Jerry—­it’s one of the delights I must forego.”

When Errington spoke with such a definite air of finality, his young secretary knew from experience that he might as well drop the subject.  He could get nothing further out of Max, once the latter had adopted that tone over any matter.  So Jerry, being wise in his generation, held his peace.

Suddenly Errington faced round and laid his hands on the boy’s shoulder.

“Jerry,” he said, and his voice shook with some deep emotion.  “Thank God—­thank Him every day of your life—­that you’re free and untrammelled.  All the world’s yours if you choose to take it.  Some of us are shackled—­our arms tied behind our backs.  And oh, my God!  How they ache to be free!”

The blue eyes were full of a keen anguish, the stern mouth wry with pain.  Never before had Jerry seen him thus with the mask off, and he felt as though he were watching a soul’s agony unveiled.

“Max . . . dear old chap . . .” he stammered.  “Can’t I help?”

With an obvious effort Errington regained his composure, but his face was grey as he answered:—­

“Neither you nor any one else, Jerry, boy.  I must dree my weird, as the Scotch say.  And that’s the hard part of it—­to be your own judge and jury.  A man ought not to be compelled to play the double role of victim and executioner.”

“And must you? . . .  No way out?”

“None.  Unless”—­with a hard laugh—­“the executioner throws up the game and—­runs away, allowing the victim to escape.  And that’s impossible! . . .  Impossible!” he reiterated vehemently, as though arguing against some inner voice.

“Let him rip,” suggested Jerry.  “Give the accused a chance!”

Errington laughed more naturally.  He was rapidly regaining his usual self-possession.

“Jerry, you’re a good pal, but a bad adviser.  Get thee behind me.”

Steps sounded on the stairs outside.  Adrienne and Mrs. Adams had come back, and Errington turned composedly to greet them, the veil of reticence, momentarily swept aside by the surge of a sudden emotion, falling once more into its place.