“Are they unduly harsh in this case?” he asked.
“How should I know? These people keep affairs like that quiet, and a casual customer like myself hears nothing about it except by chance, unless it gets into the papers, which, as I tell you, it very seldom does. London is full of well-dressed thieves, and a good many of them steal for pleasure, and hoard what they steal. When they get found out, the usual way of dealing with them is to make them pay for what they have robbed the tradesman of, as they can always do easily enough. I’m quite sure nobody knows how much of that sort of thing goes on. It’s very rarely you find such a case in the papers, very common to meet with them outside.”
She spoke simply, as if upon a matter with which she had nothing to do, but on which she was able to supply information, and did so because he appeared interested in it.
“And what degree of guilt do you ascribe to them?” he asked abruptly. “Are they conscious of what they are doing, and aware that they are committing crime?”
A faint smile flickered over Miss Davison’s face.
“Some of them,” she answered rather dryly, “are very well aware of it, indeed.”
There was an awkward pause. Presently he caught a strange glance from Miss Davison; she suddenly looked at him in a frightened way, as if she thought her last words had contained a confession, and was anxious to qualify them. But before she could speak, he said—
“What makes them do these things then? What makes an honorable woman who is not in want, stoop to such meanness, such despicable dishonesty?”
He spoke with great warmth, his eyes flashing, his fists clenched. He was torn with conflicting feelings, perplexity, horror, pity, contempt, and through it all he wondered whether it could be true, and whether this lovely woman with the frank face, the straightforward manner, the noble aims, the steadfast heart, could really be guilty of the abominable crime of theft.
She hesitated and looked down. In her face there was a strange expression which he could not understand. It might be shame alone, or sullen anger, or fear, or a compound of all three. All he could be sure of was that it was infinitely painful for him to watch her, and to know that it was his words which were inflicting upon her a torture which, whether deserved or not, was none the less distressing for him to cause.