“No, sir. Remorse aren’t seen outside the theatres, I think. ’Tis a word, sir. ’Tis only a word.” Bertram is silent. The cheap cynicism of this man, who has lived beside him during a dozen years, is revolting. “You are aware I could have you arrested?” he says, after a pause. “No, sir, you couldn’t,” replies Critchett, calmly. “You’d be giving the lie to all your own theories. Try and look at it philosophic-like, sir.” Bertram feels a violent longing to call up the policeman now passing by the rails of the Green Park. He puts a five-pound note on the table. “Take your wage for the coming month, and begone.” “It is usual, sir,” objects Critchett, “to give more than a month’s anticipatory honorarium on parting after such long association.” This is the drop too much which makes the cup of Bertram’s patience overflow. “You impudent villain,” he exclaims. “The only payment you deserve is the treadmill. Do not stretch my patience too far.” Critchett perceives that his long docile victim is roused, and may become dangerous. He retreats meekly. “Would you wish to examine my portmanteau, sir?” “No,” says Bertram. “Begone.” Critchett bows very low. “I have only put your theories into practice, sir,” he says, when he has reached a safe distance; “and you will be sorry if you send me away. You won’t find another Critchett very easily.” Bertram turns his back on him; he feels again a great inclination to summon the constable who is walking in the street below. The man having at last departed, he picks up the various objects and begins to replace them in the drawers of the cabinet. He is depressed and humiliated. For over twelve years he has implicitly trusted Critchett, believed in him, extolled him, and depended on him; taking his excellent service as a surety for moral excellence, as most of us do with our servants. The cool impertinence with which the thief has quoted his own writings and sayings against him mortifies him; he is conscious that Critchett must have always considered him an ineffable idiot. It is not soothing to one’s self-respect to realise that for more than a dozen years one has been made a fool of successfully. The sight of his mother’s jewels also saddens him; he had been her favourite son, and he had loved her tenderly. “You will keep them for your wife, Wilfrid,” she had said to him, when she had given him the pearls and other ornaments on her death-bed. What would his mother say, were she living, to such a wife for him as poor little Annie Brown? Poor Annie! Who said “as how” and “umberellar,” and who “liked to ’ear the growlers come rattlin’ ’ome o’ nights.” “Mr. Bertram,” says the voice of Annie at that moment timidly. She has come through the anteroom of which Critchett has left the door open behind him. She wears the same clothes that she wore in the Park, but she carries no baskets on her arms.