“It seems hardly possible.”
“I have been giving you a plain narrative of facts,” returned the other, “and I can vouch for the truth of all you have heard fall from my lips; but this is only one of the cases I could cite to prove to you or anyone else the injudicious use made of her Majesty’s prerogative.”
“A scoundrel who would be guilty of such an atrocious crime was utterly unworthy of the clemency of the Crown,” said Peace. “It seems to me most singular that mercy should be extended in such a case.”
“It surprised everybody—none more than myself. I shall never forget the death of that poor creature in front of the bar of the ‘Swan.’ It has made so lasting an impression, that we have been, and still are at a loss to imagine the sympathy—the misplaced sympathy, I may term it—for those who imbrue their hands in the blood of their fellow-creatures.”
“But I do not believe for one moment in the sincerity of anyone who endeavours to screen a murderer,” observed Peace.
“Neither do I, sir—neither do I,” ejaculated his companion. “If it became a personal question if a murder had been committed in their own immediate circle, they would be the first to demand the assassin’s life. We have a practical instance of this in the Marquis of Boccaria, who, while the sheets of his work against capital punishment were passing through the press, did his best to get a servant hanged who had stolen his watch.”
It was evident to Peace that the topic was a favourite one with his companion, for he gave one or two more instances of a similar nature to Dalmas’s case.[1]
After some further discussion the two companions took their departure from the roadside inn, and walked on towards their respective destinations. When the time came for them to part company Peace’s picked-up friend gave him a card, with his name and address on the face, and said he should be glad to see him at any time he could make it convenient to call. Peace thanked him, and promised to pay an early visit.
And so the two parted.
When left to himself, Peace had more time to think over the sad event of the morning. Gregson’s fate made an impression on him, but it is to be regretted that this was but of a transient nature. He was too fond of adventure, too prone to wrong-doing, to allow the miserable end of his brutal and guilty associate to take deep root in his heart, or have any influence over his future actions or way of life. He returned to his lodging, it may be a sadder, but certainly in no way a better man.