“Good Lord, Mr. Fortune, do you mean this business is that business?”
“Well, there’s a lot of unknown quantities about,” said Reggie.
Phase IV.—The Charge
When they talked about the case afterwards, Reggie and Lomas used to agree that it was a piece of pure art. “Crime unstained by any vulgar greed or sentiment; sheer crime; iniquity neat. An impressive thing, Lomas, old dear.”
“So it is,” Lomas nodded. “One meets cases of the kind, but never quite of so pure a style. Upon my soul, Fortune, it has a sort of grandeur—the intensity of purpose, the contempt for ordinary values, the absolute uselessness of it. And it was damned clever.”
Reggie chose a cigar. “Great work,” he sighed. “All the marks of the real great man, if it wasn’t diabolical. He was a great man, but for the hate in him. Just like the devil.”
“You’re so moral,” Lomas protested. “Don’t you feel the beauty of it?”
“Of course I’m moral. I’m sane. Oh, so sane, Lomas, old thing. That’s why I beat the wily criminal. And the devil, God help him.”
“Yes, you’re as sane as a boy,” Lomas nodded.
But all that was afterwards.