“Your memory is singularly short.”
“It is a defect from which I have always suffered.”
“Indeed! And I heard the other day from a university professor that you are considered by no means deficient; rather clever in fact.”
“You probably judge of cleverness by the police-spy standard; university professors use words in a different sense.”
The note of rising irritation was plainly audible in Arthur's voice. He was physically exhausted with hunger, foul air, and want of sleep; every bone in his body seemed to ache separately; and the colonel's voice grated on his exasperated nerves, setting his teeth on edge like the squeak of a slate pencil.
“Mr. Burton,” said the colonel, leaning back in his chair and speaking gravely, “you are again forgetting yourself; and I warn you once more that this kind of talk will do you no good. Surely you have had enough of the dark cell not to want any more just for the present. I tell you plainly that I shall use strong measures with you if you persist in repulsing gentle ones. Mind, I have proof—positive proof—that some of these young men have been engaged in smuggling prohibited literature into this port; and that you have been in communication with them. Now, are you going to tell me, without compulsion, what you know about this affair?”
Arthur bent his head lower. A blind, senseless, wild-beast fury was beginning to stir within him like a live thing. The possibility of losing command over himself was more appalling to him than any threats. For the first time he began to realize what latent potentialities may lie hidden beneath the culture of any gentleman and the piety of any Christian; and the terror of himself was strong upon him.
“I am waiting for your answer,” said the colonel.
“I have no answer to give.”
“You positively refuse to answer?”