“Then you think the priest believed him?”
“I haven’t a doubt of it,” said Trafford.
Trafford’s judgments had something of the weight of oracles with this man, who was able to see things but not to form opinions; and this curt declaration was to the point and not to be mistaken. For the time being, and for present purposes, it was to be accepted, and having accepted it, the other had nothing to say. But it was not so easy for Trafford. He had, perhaps, to convince some budding doubt that had not found expression either in tone or words.
“To doubt the truth of the fellow’s story, is to believe that he reasoned out the chance of the priest finding us and then deliberately employed what he regards as a sacrament—that is confession—to put in circulation a concocted story for the purpose of deceiving us. I don’t believe he’s that smart; and I don’t believe, with his belief in the Church, he’d dare do it.”
“We seem to be in the business of acquitting everybody,” the other said in a surly tone.
“It’s certainly not our business to convict, but to find out the truth,” Trafford answered. “We aren’t prosecuting attorneys.”
“But our work lies in pointing out the guilty.”
“Yes; but unless we do it as much for the sake of proving the innocence of the innocent as the guilt of the guilty, we only do half the work that we ought to do. I’d rather any time clear a man who is unjustly charged than prove a man, thought innocent, guilty,” answered Trafford.
“Maybe so, but that isn’t the kind of work the world gives you most credit for. If you can hang a man, it thinks you’ve done something big; but if you stop them from hanging a man, they think they’ve been cheated.”
“Well, I guess when all’s said and done, it’s more a question of what we think about the kind of work we’re doing, than what the world thinks of it, that counts. When I’m satisfied with myself—right down honestly satisfied—I find I can let the world think what it’s a mind to.”