“He said it was his wish to demonstrate,” he murmured, “how the dark cell could hold no terrors for the impeccable conscience, and how, therefore, arguing per contra, the man Maudsley must have been guilty of the crime for which he was sentenced.”
The constable put in a word:—
“He went mad on it, sir, did his Lordship. The papers and his own conscience druv him off of his head.”
“Thank you,” said Gilead quietly; “and thank you, too, Nestle.” He crossed, with some sign of emotion, to where Miss Halifax stood by the wall. “You advised me,” he said, “and I have had a fine lesson in self-sufficiency. It is humiliating to have to own that I owe my reason, such as it is, to a chance bottle of brandy which I found in one of the bins. But for that, I am afraid, you would have exhumed a gibbering idiot. I shall think more mercifully of one form of drunkard for the future, and less confidently of myself.” He turned. “If this gentleman,” he added courteously, “will favour me with his address, I shall take pleasure in acquitting myself of my considerable obligations to him. You, Constable, will no doubt find an opportunity of calling at Lamb’s Agency some time during your off-hours, when a closed envelope will be put into your hands.”
He bowed punctiliously to each, offered his arm to Miss Halifax, and, waiting for the Constable to lead, quitted the place of durance.
CHAPTER IV.
THE QUEST OF THE DOG
Gilead had often encountered in the Daily Post—sandwiched, say, between a heart-moving appeal on behalf of the outcast and houseless, and a last drowning cry for help from a soul almost submerged—a plea for some dog or cat seeking a kind home, and had reflected on the curious variety and varied quality of the petitions which a medium for benevolence was calculated to attract. He hoped that those, thus fondly appealing to charity for their animal beloveds, were in the habit of scrutinizing the lists in which their advertisements appeared, and of justifying their own title to help in one form by vouchsafing it in another. But he believed he had always noticed that an excessive devotion to animals entailed a rather ironic attitude towards the needs of the human family, and it was in no very sympathetic mood, therefore, that he read the first words of the following advertisement, which his secretary one morning pointed out to him:—
“Will anyone give a kind home to Pilot, a dog. O, please do help! This is genuine. No money-lenders need apply. Address Judy, Marshlock Old Rectory, Shipton-on-Thames.”
“Why do you show me this, Nestle?” he said, looking up.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the secretary. “Have you read to the end?”