“It’s not far off it,” the doctor assured him grimly. “It would go a very long way towards proving that the boy has never possessed the average stability of mind.”
“I suppose you medical men understand your own jargon,” Sir Thomas ungraciously conceded. “But to a plain man of ordinary horse-sense, which is all I’ve ever pretended to be, a liar is a liar and a thief is a thief.”
“Even a so-called criminal may not be morally responsible for his own acts.”
“Then he’s a lunatic.”
Sir Thomas made his assertion with all the positiveness of essential ignorance and stupidity combined.
“It amounts to this,” Rose said suddenly, “either Ces will be proved a thief and sent to prison, or they’ll say he’s mad.”
“Good God!” Sir Thomas groaned. “I only hope he is mad. In fact, I’m inclined to think he must be.”
The doctor glanced swiftly at Rose, seeking to convey to her that Sir Thomas, under the obsession of Cecil’s insanity, would be rather less impracticable than when infuriated by the conviction of Cecil’s depravity. She nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Call me when it’s time to start. I’m going to telephone for a room at the hotel.”
The doctor let her go. He had something else to say to Sir Thomas Aviolet.