"I? Does either of you think that I—?"
"No, no," came the voice, now curiously tearful. "I didn't mean that. I forgot you've not had time to find out."
"Who does he think it was?"
"Some old fellow prisoner who had a grudge against him."
"Were you at the meeting?"
"Yes. Oh, Paul, it was splendid to see him face the audience. He spoke so simply and with such sorrowful dignity. He had their sympathy at once. But it has broken him. I'm afraid he'll never be the same man again. After all these years it's dreadful."
"It's all that's damnable. It's tragic. Give him my love and tell him that words can't express my sorrow and indignation."
He rang off. Almost immediately Wilson was announced. He came into the room radiant.
"You were right about the divine common-sensicality," said he. "The Lord has delivered our adversary into our hands with a vengeance."
He was a chubby little man of forty, with coarse black hair and scrubby moustache, not of the type that readily appreciates the delicacies of a situation. Paul conceived a sudden loathing for him.