“The greatest. I'm the cause of his being in Boston.”
“This is very interesting,” said Evans. “We are companions in crime—pals. It's a great honour. But what strikes me as being so interesting is that we appear to feel remorse for our misdeeds; and I was almost persuaded the other day by an observer of our species, that remorse had gone out, or rather had never existed, except in the fancy of innocent people; that real criminals like ourselves were afraid of being found out, but weren't in the least sorry. Perhaps, if we are sorry, it proves that we needn't be. Let's judge each other. I've told you what my sin against Barker is, and I know yours in general terms. It's a fearful thing to be the cause of a human soul's presence in Boston; but what did you do to bring it about? Who is Barker? Where did he come from? What was his previous condition of servitude? He puzzles me a good deal.”
“Oh, I'll tell you,” said Sewell; and he gave his personal chapter in Lemuel's history.
Evans interrupted him at one point. “And what became of the poem he brought down with him?”
“It was stolen out of his pocket, one night when he slept in the common.”
“Ah, then he can't offer it to me! And he seems very far from writing any more. I can still keep his acquaintance. Go on.”
Sewell told, in amusing detail, of the Wayfarer's Lodge, where he had found Barker after supposing he had gone home. Evans seemed more interested in the place than in the minister's meeting with Lemuel there, which Sewell fancied he had painted rather well, describing Lemuel's severity and his own anxiety.
“There!” said the editor. “There you have it—a practical illustration! Our civilisation has had to come to it!”
“Come to what?”
“Complicity.”