"By God, it is true to say they don't know the difference between right and wrong. Not at that time. Mostly they go to the rope with indifference; outwardly, that is. But not inside. They're boiling crazy. Society hasn’t understood them. Society has persecuted them. They want to tear…" Stannard spread out his hands. "That's why I say, Ruth, that a place like Pentonville or Wandsworth must be deadly. Hasn’t any psychical researcher ever thought of spending a night in the execution shed?" Ruth lifted her shoulders.
"I dent know," she confessed. "I never thought of it" And she turned towards the young man who was sitting near the fireplace and the grand piano. "What's your opinion, Martin?"
Martin Drake looked up. Like Stannard, he was dark. Unlike Stannard, he was tall. But his cat-green eyes, now absent minded, had a sardonic quality which sometimes matched Stannard's. He looked thin and he looked ill.
"Oh, I suppose they've thought of it," Martin Drake answered. "But they wouldn't be allowed to. The Prison Commission would have a fit"
"Right," chuckled Stannard.
(He missed no glance Ruth Callice turned towards Drake. There were currents in this room, not quite like a usual social evening.)
"But I wish we could do it," the young man said unexpectedly, and struck his clenched fist on his knee. "Lord, how I wish we could do it!"
Ruth's voice went up. "Spend a night in a…!"
"Oh, not you!" Drake smiled at her; it lightened the illness of his look to kindliness and affection. "I suppose, actually, I meant myself."
"But whatever for?"