“Judas was not the only man to take blood-money. They come to a bad end, these men who sell human lives for greed.”
Do they? Matheson felt that the speaker generalised over-freely. If Justice were always discriminating and inexorable in her dealings with malefactors, she worked too secretly for the ordinary man to follow her methods. It was altogether a fallacy in regard to this life that the wicked suffer and are punished in proportion to their offence.
The train ran into the station. He got out quickly. He had no baggage to concern himself with, and was one of the first to descend from the train. He searched the platform eagerly for Brenda; and when he caught sight of her and saw the light of welcome in her face, he realised how great his disappointment would have been had she failed him.
She came forward swiftly, a pleased shyness in her look, love for him shining behind the smiling gladness in her eyes. He stooped and kissed her. It was an unusual demonstration from him in public; but the sight of her welcoming face was good; it surprised him into a betrayal of greater tenderness than she was accustomed to from him. She drew him towards a lamp and scrutinised him attentively, and he saw her quick startled glance directed towards his empty sleeve, and felt unaccountably embarrassed.
“It’s nothing,” he said jerkily in an attempt to reassure her. “I’ll tell you about that some other time.”
Her eyes lifted from the empty sleeve to his face.
“You look very tired,” she said. “You’ve been ill... You are ill.”
He tucked his hand within her arm and led her outside the station.
“I got hurt,” he said, “and I ought, I suppose, to be resting my arm, but it wasn’t possible. It’s nothing to worry about.”
He put her into a cab and seated himself beside her.