“You’re a problem, Stenness,” he said at last. “I don’t really know what to do with you.”
“Oh, arrest me!” Stenness exclaimed, bitterly. “Nothing matters now. She’s dead. It’s all over; and I don’t much care what happens.”
“Pull yourself together, man,” said Sir Clinton, curtly. “That sort of chatter does all right on the stage. Nobody with a backbone takes a knock like that. If you wake up three years hence in a prison cell, you’ll look at things in a different light, and be very fed-up that you’ve lost your liberty as well as other things. Some things are inevitable. Others aren’t. Don’t behave like a child.”
Stenness took the rebuke sullenly.
“Well, what does it matter?” he demanded. “You have enough in your hands to convict me if you want to—and I don’t care. Do as you like. I’ll write it out for you now, if you think it’ll save you trouble. I’m not inclined to wriggle at the last moment.”
Sir Clinton gave no sign that he had heard him. Instead, he seemed engrossed on some problem. At last he lifted his head.
“I can’t follow that intricate conscience of yours, Stenness. It’s beyond me. But I can sympathise to some extent with your analogy of the pickpocket caught red-handed. That was very apt. I’m going to give you a chance. I know well enough that you’re speaking the truth about this business. Besides, I can get it checked if necessary. On the basis of ethics, I think you’ve some right to the money. You have it here in notes, I suppose?”
“It’s upstairs.”
“Very well. Bring it down. Put it in the safe. Seal it up in an envelope with your name on it before putting it away. I’ll see what’s to be done about it to-morrow. Now, do that at once. Don’t argue.”
“The money means nothing much to me now,” said Stenness angrily.