“Only think now!” cried Mr. Datchery.
“But proof, sir, proof must be built up stone by stone,” said the Mayor. “As I say, the end crowns the work. It is not enough that justice should be morally certain; she must be immorally certain—legally, that is.”
“His Honour,” said Mr. Datchery, “reminds me of the nature of the law. Immoral. How true!”
“As I say, sir,” pompously went on the Mayor, “the arm of the law is a strong arm, and a long arm. That is the way I put it. A strong arm and a long arm.”
“How forcible!—And yet, again, how true!” murmured Mr. Datchery.
“And without betraying, what I call the secrets of the prison-house,” said Mr. Sapsea; “the secrets of the prison-house is the term I used on the bench.”
“And what other term than His Honour’s would express it?” said Mr. Datchery.
“Without, I say, betraying them, I predict to you, knowing the iron will of the gentleman we have just left (I take the bold step of calling it iron, on account of its strength), that in this case the long arm will reach, and the strong arm will strike.—This is our Cathedral, sir. The best judges are pleased to admire it, and the best among our townsmen own to being a little vain of it.”
All this time Mr. Datchery had walked with his hat under his arm, and his white hair streaming. He had an odd momentary appearance upon him of having forgotten his hat, when Mr. Sapsea now touched it; and he clapped his hand up to his head as if with some vague expectation of finding another hat upon it.
“Pray be covered, sir,” entreated Mr. Sapsea; magnificently plying: “I shall not mind it, I assure you.”