He paused, letting the image sink in. Then he got up and went to the coffee-table beside the sofa; His black hair, showing no grey and brushed to a nicety round his head, gleamed in contrast to the reddish, roughened face. The white shirtfront bulged and crackled. Picking up the decanter, he poured a very little whisky into his glass.
"But that's — horrible!" Ruth cried.
"No doubt," Stannard agreed dryly. "All the same, think of it for a moment"
The sofa-syphon hissed.
"Your human tiger, at the very high point of his rage and desperation, is dragged to the execution shed and has his neck cracked on a rope." The strong, faintly husky voice pointed it vividly. "If anybody would leave an earth-bound soul in that place, he would.
"Believe me," Stannard added abruptly, "I've defended too many murderers not to know that many of them are decent honest fellows. There-but-for-the-grace-of-God, and all the rest of it When you hear the foreman of the jury say 'not guilty,' you feel half sick with relief. You pat yourself on the back for the rest of the week."
Ruth's eyes were fixed on his face.
"I've heard," she said, "that only two persons you defended on a murder charge were ever… well, executed."
"Much exaggerated, my dear. Much!" Stannard chuckled; then his expression changed. "But I've seen the other kind of murderer too. That's why I don't scoff at spiritual evil."
He lifted his glass, drained its contents, and put it down.