Mr. Y. No, no, no, we will go on talking about it until I convince myself that I’m not a criminal.
Mr. X. Haven’t you done that?
Mr. Y. No, I haven’t.
Mr. X. Yes, you see, it’s that which bothers me. It’s that which bothers me. Don’t you think that every man has a skeleton in his cupboard? Haven’t we all stolen and lied as children? Yes, of course we have. Well, one finds men who remain children all their lives, so that they’re unable to control their criminal desires. If the opportunity but presents itself, one of the type will become a criminal immediately. But I can’t understand why you don’t feel yourself innocent. If you look upon children as irresponsible, you ought to look upon criminals in the same way. It’s strange—yes, it is strange, I shall perhaps be sorry afterwards, that [Pause.] I once killed a man. I did, and I have never had any qualms.
Mr. Y.[Keenly interested.] You—you?
Mr. X. Yes, I myself. Perhaps you’d rather not shake hands with a murderer?
Mr. Y.[Briskly.] Oh, what rot!
Mr. X. Yes, but I went scot-free.
Mr. Y.[With an air of familiarity and superiority.] All the better for you! How did you dodge the coppers?
Mr. X. There was no one to accuse me—no one to suspect me—there were no witnesses. The thing was like this. A friend of mine had invited me one Christmas to his place outside Upsala for the hunting. He sent to drive me a drunken old blighter who went to sleep upon the box, drove bang into a hole and upset in the ditch. I won’t say it was a matter of life and death, but in a fit of temper I let him have it in the neck to wake him up, with the result that he never woke up, but lay there dead.