"Then it lies between your own error, a guest, or a servant. With two chances to one, in favor of the guest, I should acquit the guest—and, particularly, when it marches with your own desires."
Marbury shook his head dubiously. "I do not want to suspect any one, and I will not. I would not prosecute even if I were sure of the thief; I would let him know that I knew, and do nothing more."
"In that view of it, is your course quite right to your friends—to those who are not here, as well as those who are?"
"You mean that I turn loose a thief among them?"
"I do."
"That does not bother me, Maynadier," said Marbury. "I have paid my loss, I am not lamenting. I have no friends to protect, except yourself, and you I have told."
Maynadier made no reply. He knew Marbury's way, and the uselessness of arguing the general good, and the duty one owes to society. Marbury would scorn to suspect a guest of crime, would refuse to prosecute if detected, yet he would do nothing to protect his fellow men from being victimized. It was a queer philosophy; but Marbury had been taught in a hard school, and early learned the lesson of self alone. To him, the doctrine of personal responsibility applied only to himself, his family, and his friends—further, it did not extend; and there was no obligation to society whatever. So far as he was concerned, society could look out for itself.
"I will tell you, if I observe anything," said Maynadier—"that is, if you wish it."
"Yes, please," said Marbury; "but tell no one else."