"I suppose, J. J.," said the Major, when Meldon, reaching the highroad, slackened his pace—"I suppose that I'm being hustled about like this so that Simpkins can have Miss King all to himself, but—"
"Exactly," said Meldon. "I may tell you, Major, that I now look upon Simpkins as practically a dead man. I don't see how he can possibly escape."
"What I was going to say," said the Major, "is that I think you are mistaken about Miss King. She doesn't seem to me the least like a criminal."
"Of course not. She wouldn't be the successful murderess she is if she hadn't the manners and appearance of a very gentle and gracious lady. That's what gives her the pull she has when it comes to the verdict of a jury. You ought to know, Major, that the old Bill Sykes sort of criminal, the brutalised-looking man with a huge jaw and a low forehead, is quite out of date now. No one gets himself up in that style who means to go in for serious crime. In a book published the other day there was a composite photograph made up of the faces of fifty or sixty criminals of the most extreme kind. I assure you that the net result was an uncommonly good-looking man. That shows you the truth of what I'm saying."
"In any case, J. J., setting aside her personal appearance and manner—"
"Your impression of her personal appearance. I wasn't taken in by it."
"She isn't the sort of woman you said she was. She'd never heard of that philosopher of yours."
"Do you mean to say that she denied ever having heard the name of Nietzsche?"
"Not exactly. The fact is that I couldn't recollect his name, but I gave her a sketch of his doctrines—"
"I don't expect she recognised your sketch. You were probably grossly inaccurate."