The Long Portage by Harold Bindloss

It had been dark some time and the night was raw, but Jim Crestwick strolled up and down the drive to Marple's house, thinking unusually hard. In the first place, part at least of the folly of his conduct during the last year or two had been plainly brought home to him, and the realization was bitter. It was galling to discover that while he had regarded himself as a man of the world he had been systematically victimized by the men who had encouraged him in the delusion. He felt very sore as he remembered how much he owed Batley, but this troubled him less than the downright abhorrence of Gladwyne which had suddenly possessed him. He had looked up to the latter as a model and had tried to copy his manners; and it was chiefly because Batley was a friend of Gladwyne's that he had paid toll to him. For he had felt that whatever the man he admired was willing to countenance must be the correct thing.

Now he saw Gladwyne as he really was -- a betrayer of those who trusted him, a counterfeit of an honorable type, one who had by the merest chance escaped from crime.