Presently the sound of convulsive sobbing filled the room; I thought best to remain near the door and make no effort to check his grief with words.
At last the storm spent itself. He came slowly into the middle of the room and stood facing me. At length he said:
"One of the greatest punishments is gone, thank God. Florence Campbell is dead, you say. Do you know what it is, Doctor, to wish that one you loved was dead?"
"Yes, yes." I said; "but it is best for you not to talk any more—nor think, just now—not of that—not of that."
He broke in impatiently—"Don't you know me well enough yet to know that that sort of thing—that sort of professional humbug is useless? Must not talk more of that—nor think of it, indeed! What else do you suppose I ever think of? The good men who are bad and the bad ones who are good—the puppets of our recent conversations? Suppose we boil it down a little. Am I a bad man? That is a question that puzzles me. Am I a good one? At least I can answer that—and yet I never did but one criminal deed in my whole life, and I have done a great many so-called good ones to set over against it."
"Then you can answer neither question with a single word," I said. He took my hand and pressed it with the frenzy of a new hope.
"At least one man's philosophy is not all words," he said. "You act upon your theories. You are the only one I ever knew who did."
"Perhaps I am the only one you ever gave the chance," I replied, still holding his hand.
We stood thus silent for a moment, then he said with an inexpressible accent of satire: "Would you advise me to try it, doctor, with anyone else?" I deliberated some time before I replied. Then I said: "No, I am sorry to say that I fear it would not be safe. There is still so much tiger in the human race. No, do not tell your story again to any one; it can do no good. Most certainly I would advise you not to try it ever again."
As I left the room he said: "True, true. It can do no good, none whatever."