When they stood in the road, Haworth laid his hand upon his companion's shoulder heavily.

"Come up to the Works, lad," he said, "and let's have a bit of a talk."

His voice and his touch had something in common. Murdoch understood them both. There was no need for clearer speech.

"Why there?" he asked.

"It's quiet there. I've a fancy for it."

"I have no fancy against it. As well there as anywhere else."

"Aye," said Haworth. "Not only as well, but better."

He led the way into his own room and struck a light. He flung his keys upon the table; they struck it with a heavy clang. Then he spoke his first words since they had turned from the gate-way.

"Aye," he said, "not only as well, but better. I'm at home here, if I'm out everywhere else. The place knows me and I know it. I'm best man here, by——! if I'm out everywhere else."

He sat down at the table and rested his chin upon his hand. His hand shook, and his forehead was clammy.

Murdoch threw himself into the chair opposite to him.

"Go on," he said. "Say what you have to say."

Haworth bent forward a little.

"You've got on better than I'd have thought, lad," he said,—"better than I'd have thought."

"What!" hoarsely. "Does she treat me as she treats other men?"

"Nay," said Haworth, "not as she treats me—by the Lord Harry!"

The deadly bitterness which possessed him was terrible; he was livid with it.

"I've thought of a good many," he said. "I've looked on at 'em as they stood round her—chaps of her own sort, with money and the rest of it; but I never thought of you—not once."

"No," said Murdoch, "I dare say not."

"No—not once," the man repeated. "Get up, and let's take a look at you," he said. "Happen I've not had the right notion on you."

"Don't say anything you'll repent," said Murdoch. "It's bad enough as it is."

But his words were like chaff before the wind.

"You!" cried the man. "You were the chap that knew naught of women's ways. You'd scarce look one on 'em in the face. You're not the build I thought they took to."

"You told me that once before," said Murdoch, with a bitter laugh. "I've not forgotten it."

Haworth's clenched fist fell upon the table with a force which made the keys ring.

"Blast you!" he said. "You're nigher to her now than me—now!"

"Then," Murdoch answered, "you may give up."

"Give up!" was the reply. "Nay, not that, my lad. I've not come to that yet."

Then his rage broke forth again.

"You to be going there on the quiet!" he cried. "You to be making way with her, and finding her easy to please, and priding yourself on it!"

"I please her!" said Murdoch. "I pride myself!"

He got up and began to pace the floor.

"You're mad!" he said. "Mad!"

Haworth checked himself to stare at him.

"What did you go for," he asked, "if it wasn't for that?"

Murdoch stopped in his walk. He turned himself about.

"I don't know," he said, "I don't know."

"Do you think," he said, in a hushed voice, after the pause which followed,—"do you think I expect anything? Do you think I look forward or backward? Can you understand that it is enough as it stands—enough?"

Haworth still stared at him dully.

"Nay," he returned, "that I cannot."

"I to stand before her as a man with a best side which might win her favor! What is there in me, that she should give me a thought when I am not near her? What have I done? What has my life been worth? It may be nothing in the end! Good God! nothing!"

He said it almost as if stunned. For the moment he was overwhelmed, and had forgotten.

"You're nigher to her than I am," said Haworth. "You think because you're one o' the gentleman sort——"

"Gentleman!" said Murdoch, speculatively. "I a gentleman?"

"Aye, damn you," said Haworth, bitterly, "and you know it."

The very words seemed to rouse him. He shook his clenched hand.

"That's it!" he cried. "There's where it is. You've got it in you, and you know it—and she knows it too!"

"I have never asked myself whether I was or not," said Murdoch. "I have not cared. What did it matter? What you said just now was true, after all. I know nothing of women. I know little enough of men. I have been a dull fellow, I think, and slow to learn. I can only take what comes."

He came back to the table, and threw himself into his chair.

"Does either of us know what we came here for?" he asked.

"We came to talk it over," was Haworth's answer, "and we've done it."

"Then, if we have done it, let us go our ways."

"Nay, not yet. I've summat more to say."

"Say it," Murdoch replied, "and let us have it over."

"It's this," he returned. "You're a different chap from what I took you for—a different chap. I never thought of you—not once."

"You've said that before."

"Aye," grimly, "I've said it before. Like enough I shall say it again. It sticks to me. We've been good friends, after a manner, and that makes it stick to me. I don't say you're to blame. I haven't quite made the thing out yet. We're of a different build, and—there's been times before when I haven't quite been up to you. But we've been friends, after a manner, and now th' time's come when we're done with that."

"Done with it!" repeated Murdoch, mechanically.

"Aye," meeting his glance fully, "done with it! We'll begin fair and square, lad. It's done with. Do you think," with deadly coolness, "I'd stop at aught if th' time come?"

He rose a little from his seat, bending forward.

"Naught's never come in my way, yet, that's stopped me," he said. "Things has gone agen me and I've got th' best on 'em in one way or another. I've not minded how. I've gone on till I've reached this. Naught's stopped me—naught never shall!"

He fell back in his chair and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief.

"I wish," he said, "it had been another chap. I never thought of you—not once."