# Episodes Before Thirty/Chapter 17

CHAPTER XVII
Boyde was in cheerful, smiling mood. He put some grapes on the bed, asked how I felt, and told me about his trip to Patterson and his failure to get the organist job. "It's bitterly cold," he said.
"I was glad of your overcoat. You have been a brick," he added, "but I'll make it all up to you when my luck turns." He crossed over to the sofa and sat down, stretching himself, obviously tired out.
"Never mind, old chap; we shall get along somehow. Probably Kay will send us something more before long. He's always faithful. Let's see," I went on casually, "when was it we heard from him last?"
"A week ago," said Boyde quite naturally. "Toronto, wasn't it? Or Buffalo—no, no, Toronto."
We laughed together. "So it was," I agreed carelessly. Then I pretended to hesitate. "But that was nearly a fortnight ago," I suddenly corrected my memory; "surely we've heard since that. Only the other day—or did I dream it?"
Boyde stared at me lazily through the cigarette smoke. "No, I think not," he said quietly. "There was only the one letter." He showed no sign of disturbance.
I lay still, pretending to think back a bit, then heaved myself slowly up in bed.
"But, Boyde, I remember the letter," I exclaimed with conviction, staring into his face, "I'm certain I do—another letter. Why, of course! I remember your showing it to me. There was a cheque in it—a cheque for seventy-five dollars!"
His easy laugh, his voice and manner, the perfect naturalness of his reply made me feel sure that I was in the wrong. He knew absolutely nothing of the cheque ​and letter. He was innocent. It was not his doing, at any rate.
"You must have been dreaming," he said, looking me full in the face with his big, honest blue eyes. "It's too good to be true." He gave a wry little chuckle that only a clear conscience could have made possible.
I lay back in bed and laughed with him, partly from weakness, partly to hide my shaking, which I was terrified he would notice. I changed the subject a moment later, as he said nothing more; then, still acting on impulse and with no preconceived plan or idea of my next move, I sat bolt upright in bed and fixed him with my eyes. I assumed a very convinced and serious tone. I felt serious and convinced. The mood of horror had rushed suddenly up in me:
"Boyde, I remember it all now." I spoke with great emphasis. "It was not a dream at all. You came to this bedside and showed me the letter. You held it out for me to read. It was dated from my old Toronto Dairy three days ago. You showed me the cheque too. It was for seventy-five dollars, signed by Kay, and made out to your order. I remember every single detail of it suddenly. And--so do you."
He gazed at me as a little child might gaze. He made no movement. His eyes neither dropped nor flinched. He merely gazed--with a puzzled, innocent, guileless stare. A pained expression then stole across his face.
"Blackwood, what on earth do you mean? It's not likely I should forget it if seventy-five dollars came, is it?" he went on quickly in his most sympathetic voice, an aggrieved note in it that stirred all my affection instantly. "The most he has sent so far is ten dollars. I should have given you the money at once. And you know it, Blackwood." He got up and walked quietly to and fro.
It was the way he uttered those last four words that sent ice down my spine and brought the mood of horror back. Why this was so, I cannot explain. Perhaps the phrase rang false; perhaps its over-emphasis failed. I ​only know that my hesitation vanished. That prepared plan so strangely matured, yet hidden so deeply that it emerged only step by step as it was needed, pushed up another move into my upper mind.
I got slowly out of bed. Perspiration broke out all over me. I felt very weak. The wound stretched. Straight before me, a long way off it seemed, was the sofa. Boyde stood watching my every move. He stood like a statue.
Before I had taken a couple of slow, small steps, crawling round the edge of the bed, he did two quick things that in a flash brought final conviction to me, so that I knew beyond any doubt the hideous thing was true: he moved suddenly across the room, passing in front of me, though not near enough to touch; three rapid strides and he was against the window--with his back to the light. It was dusk. He wished to conceal his face from me. His left arm hung at his side, the hand on a level with the dressing-table, and I saw his fingers feeling along its surface, though his eyes never left my own. I saw them find, then grip, the white-handled razor, and pull it slowly towards him. These were the two things that betrayed him, but chiefly, I think, the first of them--concealing his face.
At the same instant there was a faint sound on my left. I had completely forgotten the existence of my visitor; I now remembered him, for that sound came from inside the cupboard, and Grant, evidently, was ready to leap out. But I did not want Grant. I intended the whole matter to be between Boyde and myself. A flash of understanding had given me complete assurance. Boyde, I now knew, was a coward, a sneak, a cheat, a liar, and worse besides. In spite of my physical weakness I had the upper hand. I was about to give him the fright of his life, though still with no clear idea exactly how this was to be accomplished. All I knew was that I meant to terrify him, then forgive--and save him from himself.
"Not yet!" I called out, yet so quickly, and with so little apparent meaning, that Boyde, I think, hardly heard ​me, and certainly did not understand. Grant, however, understood. He told me later it was just in time to prevent his coming out.
With one hand supporting me on the edge of the dressing-*table, I was now close to Boyde, bent double in front of him, staring up into his eyes.
"Give me that razor," I said, and he obeyed, as I felt sure he would. That is, his fingers moved away from it, and I quickly pushed it out of his reach. With my other hand I seized his arm. I raised my face to his as much as my wound allowed.
"Boyde," I said, "I know everything!"
If I expected a collapse, as I think was the case, I was disappointed. Nothing happened. He did not move. Not a muscle, not even an eyelash flickered. He stared down into my upturned face without a word, waiting for what was coming; control of the features, of mouth and eyes in particular, was absolute. And it was this silence, this calm assurance, giving me no help, even making it more difficult for me, that, I think, combined to set me going. I was fairly wound up; I saw red. The words poured out, hot, bitter, scathing.
The moment I ended, he smiled, as he said very quietly:
"I don't know what you're talking about. You are fearfully excited and you will regret your words. I do wish you would get back into bed. All this is awfully bad for you in your weak condition."
I was flabbergasted. All the wind had been taken from my sails. A touch would have sent me to the floor, but he did not touch me. He merely gazed into my face with an air of calm patience that had pity in it, a hint even of contempt.
There was a little silence after he had spoken. For a moment I had no notion what to do or say. Then, quite suddenly, up flashed my plan. I was less excited now, my voice was well under control.
"Boyde," I said, "now, at last, I've caught you in a worse thing still. You have forged a letter and a signa​ ture. You have forged a cheque as well. And you will have to go to prison for it. There is a headquarters detective outside waiting for me to call him in. You are going to be arrested."
There was a moment of taut suspense I can never forget. He stared down at me, obviously at first incredulous. A slight twitch ran across his face, nothing more; beyond a trifling extra bend of the head, he made no movement. He was judging me, weighing my words, wondering if they were true. The next second I saw that he believed me.
What happened then to his face I had never seen before, though I was often to see it afterwards in other faces during my criminal experience. The skin slowly blanched to the hue of flour; the cheeks sagged; the mouth opened; the look in his eyes was dreadful. The whole face disintegrated, as it were. He had the air of a hunted animal at bay. At the same time there was a convulsive movement of his entire body that frightened me. I did not know what he was going to do. It was really made up of several movements, one starting after another. First, his knees gave way and he nearly collapsed. Then, evidently, he considered the possibility of knocking me down and dashing out of the room. His eyes ran swiftly over everything at once, it seemed, noticing the razor certainly, but finding me awkwardly between him and the end of the table where it lay. He half turned in the direction of the window behind him, thinking doubtless of escape by the leads outside. He gave finally a sort of lurch towards me, but this I did not actually see, for I had turned away and was crawling painfully over to the door. It was Grant who supplied this detail of description later. His idea, probably, was to knock me down and make a bolt for it. But, whatever it was he really intended to do, in the end he did nothing, for at this second Grant emerged suddenly from his cupboard.
I was already leaning with my back against the door and caught the look of terror and blank amazement that came into Boyde's face, as he saw another man whom he ​certainly took at first for the detective. He stood stock still like a petrified figure. A moment later he recognized him as the Englishman he had met at the cricket match. He subsided backwards, half on to the window-sill and half against the dressing-table. The drama of the scene suddenly occurred to me for the first time, as I watched Grant walk over and put the razor in his pocket, and then sit down quietly on the sofa. He spoke no single word. He merely sat and watched.
With my back against the door I then went on talking quickly. Yet behind my anger and disgust, I felt the old pity surge up; already I was sorry for him; I would presently forgive him. But, first, there was something else to be done. The plan lay quite clear in my mind.
Closely watched by Grant and myself, Boyde had meanwhile moved out into the room, still without speaking a single word, and flung himself on the bed where he began to cry like a child. He sobbed convulsively, though whether the tears were of sorrow or of fear, I could not tell. We watched him for some time in silence. It was some minutes later that he sat up, still shaking with sobs, and tried to speak. In an utterly broken voice he begged for mercy, not for himself--he swore he didn't "care a damn" about his "worthless self"--but for his mother's sake. It would break her heart, if she heard about it; it would kill her. He implored me for another chance. His flow of words never ceased. If I would let him off this time, he begged, he would do anything I wished, anything, anything in the world. He would leave New York, he would go home and enlist ... but forgery meant years in gaol. "I am only thirty, and the sentence would mean the end of my life...."
Perhaps instinct warned me he was lying, perhaps he over-acted, I cannot say; but the entire scene, the sobs, the impassioned language, the anguish in the broken voice, the ruin of the face I had once thought innocent, all left me without emotion. I was exhausted too. I had witnessed similar scenes between detectives and their ​prisoners, the former not only unmoved, but bored and even angry. I understood now how they felt. But there was the balance of my plan to be carried out; my original principle had never wavered; I believed the terror he had felt would make him run straight in future; the moment had now come, I thought, to tell him he was forgiven. So I left the door--he screamed, thinking I was going to open it--and crawled slowly over to him. Putting my hand on his shoulder, and using the gentlest, kindest voice I could find, I told him he should have another chance, but only one. All excitement had died out of me, I felt real pity, the old affection rose, I urged and begged him to "run straight" from this moment....
"But--there is a condition," I finished my sermon.
"Anything, Blackwood. I'll do anything you say." The tears were still hanging on his cheeks.
"You will sit down and write what I dictate."
We found a sheet of foolscap, and he sat down at the little desk, while I stood over him and dictated the words of a full confession. In writing it, Boyde's hand was as steady as that of a clerk making an unimportant entry in an office book. He came to the end and looked up at me enquiringly.
"Now write a duplicate," I said, "in your other handwriting, the one you meant to be a copy of Kay's."
He did this too; to an inexperienced eye the difference was extraordinary. I asked Grant to witness it with me, and when this was finished I waved the document in the other's face. "I shall keep this," I told him gravely, "and if ever you go wrong again, it will mean twenty years in prison." I do not think he knew what I knew at that moment; viz. that a confession signed "under duress" was not evidence in a court of law. He said very simply, gazing into my eyes: "You've saved my life, Blackwood. I shall never forget this day. My temptations have been awful, but from this moment I mean to run straight, perfectly straight." Words of gratitude followed in a flood. He shook my hand, begging to be allowed to help me back into bed. ​ "I must first tell the detective I've withdrawn the charge," I said. "I must send him away. He doesn't know your name." Boyde thanked me volubly again, as I crawled to the door, closed it again, and stood in the cold passage a minute or two. "The man's gone," I said, when I came back.
"When--when am I to leave this room?" he asked quietly. I told him he could stay. The matter was forgiven and forgotten. He began to cry again....
For some time after Grant had gone, we were alone. Boyde talked a little, repeating his gratitude. I asked him one question only: had he been in gaol before? "I would rather not answer that, if you don't mind," he said. I did not press him, for he had answered it. "I shall never, never go wrong again," he kept repeating. And all the time he talked--I learned this later--there lay in his coat pocket, that was my coat pocket, the sum of ten dollars which belonged to me. He had sold two of my translations to McCloy, telling me McCloy had refused them.
I have a vague recollection of that evening and of our talk, for complete exhaustion had come over me from the moment I got back into bed. It was not unconsciousness, but probably half unconsciousness. I was only dimly aware of what was going on. I remember Boyde going out to eat something at Krisch's, then coming back. I woke in darkness with a sudden start. The gas was out, and I wondered why. There was a noise close beside me--something swishing. My mind cleared in a flash.
"Put it back, Boyde," I called out. "Put it back at once."
A thin summer coat hung on the door, too thin and shabby to wear, too ragged to pawn. I had placed the confession in the inside pocket, and it was this coat I now heard swishing faintly against the wood.
No answer came, but I plainly heard the soft tread of bare feet along the carpet. I got up and lit the gas. Boyde lay apparently sleeping soundly on the floor. ​I noticed how well-nourished his body looked. He, at any rate, had not been starving. Then I moved to the door, found the confession, took it out, and crawled back into bed. From that moment the paper never left me; it was with me when later the doctor allowed me out, and at night it lay under my pillow while I slept. I kept the torn scraps of the cheque and letter with it, and I hid the razor. Boyde never shaved himself in that room again.