XXXV
After the prisoner had bowed with a self-possession and an ample courtesy to the presiding magistrate, and to his late employer—which both gentlemen thought in the circumstances were very remarkable—and he had stepped down from the dock, Mr. Octavius Crumpett said to his acquaintance and fellow-clubman, Mr. Ashmole Pursglove, “Pursglove, this affair has cost me much pain. That man has been in the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker seven years, and I understand that in all that time his conduct has been exemplary. Yet his career reveals a depth of depravity that is truly shocking. Not one of his companions in the office had suspected it.”
“I can only remark, Crumpett,” said Mr. Ashmole Pursglove, “that in my judgment that man has the air and demeanour of a finished criminal. I am afraid there is nothing to be said for a man of that type. Our social system makes no sort of provision for him. If I could have my way he would be detained as a hopeless lunatic. He would not be given back to society again.”
“It is curious, Pursglove,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “what an insight into the human heart is given to some men. You know Murtle. Well, Murtle said to me, after having witnessed the man give himself into custody, ‘There is not the least doubt in my mind, Crumpett, that that man is capable of anything.’ And I little thought when Murtle said this, upon, as I considered, very insufficient data, how amply his judgment was to be confirmed.”
After Mr. Octavius Crumpett had shaken hands very cordially with the presiding magistrate, had also thanked him for his disinterested services, and further, had subscribed five pounds to the funds of the court, he entered a hansom and requested to be driven to his club. In the course of the journey he continually made the observation: “Murtle was right! Murtle was quite right! What an astonishing insight that man has into the human heart!”
XXXVI
In the meantime Mr. James Dodson had hurriedly left the precincts of the court. He had made his way headlong to the refreshment buffet of the Brontë Hotel.
“Chrissie,” said the eminent philosopher, “I want something that in the quickest possible time will make me blind to the world. And as soon as I am blind to the world I want you to put me in a cab and send me home.”
“What’s up, Jimmy?” said the lady at the buffet, betraying a lively curiosity. “It isn’t love, because I know by experience that you are not built in that way.”
“A lot you know about it,” said the philosopher hoarsely. “You think because you have thrown me over twice and I have not said a word about it, I haven’t got any feelings at all. You are wrong, Chrissie. If you touch me in the right spot I have to squeal just like anybody else. I want to knock my head against that beer-engine until I can’t feel anything more. And why do you think I want to do that?”