“I know one thing,” said Winthrop, doggedly, “it is that sort of folk make the best way in life.”
“Clear wrong—all straight on end—unsound doctrine that, sir. We never think of countin' the failures, the chaps that are in jail, or at the galleys, or maybe hanged. We only take the two or three successful rogues that figure in high places, and we say, 'So much for knavery'. Now let me jest ask you, How did they come there? Was n't it by pretend in' to be good men? Wasn't it by mock charity, mock patriotism, mock sentiment in fifty ways, supported now and then by a bit of real action, just as a forger always slips a real gold piece amongst his counterfeits? And what is all this but sayin' the way to be prosperous is to be good—”
“Or to seem good!” broke in Winthrop.
“Well, sir, the less we question seemin' the better! I 'd rather be taken in every day of the week than I 'd go on doubtin' every hour of the day, and I believe one must come very nigh to either at last.”
As they thus chatted, a light post-carriage rolled into the inn yard, and Dr. Layton and Alfred hastily got out and made for the apartment of their friends.
“Just as I said,—just as I foretold,—the certificate forged, without giving themselves the trouble to falsify the register,” broke in Layton. “We have seen the book at Meisner, and it records the death of a certain serving-woman, Esther Baumhardt, who was buried there seven years ago. All proves that these people, in planning this knavery, calculated on never meeting an opponent.”
“Where is this Mr. Trover?” said Alfred. “I thought we should find him here in all the abandonment of friendly ease.”
“He dined at the cottage with his other friends,” said Winthrop, “for the which I owe him all my gratitude, for I own to you I had sore misgivings about sitting down with him.”
“I could n't have done it,” broke in the old doctor. “My first mouthful would have choked me. As it is, while I wait to denounce his guilt, I have an uneasy sense of complicity, as though I knew of a crime and had not proclaimed it to the world.”
“Well, sir,” said Quackinboss, and with a sententious slowness, “I ain't minded like either of you. My platform is this: Rogues is varmin; they are to the rest of mankind what wolves and hyenas is to the domestic animals. Now, it would not be good policy or good sport to pison these critturs. What they desarve is to be hunted down! It is a rare stimulus to a fellow's blood to chase a villain. Since I have been on this trail I feel a matter of ten years younger.”