“Well, frankly, I think I do,” he said. “Truth, you see, is often a confoundedly unwelcome sort of visitor--like a poor relation--very upsetting to the conveniences. I notice, by the way, her name’s pretty familiar on your tongue. Do you hold it compatible with your very strict worship of her to suborn a young lady under the nose of her guardian?” If I had startled him, he had retorted effectually. He sniggered a little, though with an aggravated sound, witnessing my astonishment. But I at least was in no mood for compromises. “Miss Christmas has engaged herself to me,” I said shortly. He gave a soft whistle, raising his eyebrows. “Indeed?” he said drily. Then he looked at me searchingly. “She is not of age. It is in my power, of course you know, to refuse my consent.” There was a significance in his tone that I could not misunderstand. “Not even for that bribe, sir,” I said. “If needs must be, I’ll win to both name and wife without your help.” His cheek went like fire. He turned without a word, and strode off a few paces; but suddenly wheeled and came back. “That was infernally insulting,” he exclaimed. “What did you mean to imply by it?” “I am very untutored, sir,” I answered in a tone of mock humility; “and I beg your pardon. I thought you were offering me a wife to keep me quiet. But, of course, the prospect of honouring her through a successful vindication of the truth is my chief stimulus to action. You could have no objection to the match in the event of my triumphing, I am sure.” He turned again resolutely. “Go your damned way,” he said. “Only favour me by being quick about it. You’ll understand, of course, that so long as you are pursuing it, pig-headed, my hands are tied.” From that weak and evil compromise, he meant. “Trust me, sir,” I said, “not to linger out the agony; and trust me once again to hold the honour of your family sacred through everything.” “A cock-and-bull story,” he muttered fuming, and, without another look at me, took the path to the house. I stood a little, watching his retreat. What form of possession was this which could so cloud, yes and pollute, the very spring of justice? Had his jurisdiction always been at the mercy of his senses? It was not the least of the anomaly, perhaps, that he should have been of that order of judge which visits a certain sort of offence with the full weight of the law, betraying, possibly, in its sentences on others, the measure of its own self-condemnation. “There,” he might, perhaps, have said, in dooming Geoletti, “but for the mercy of God, goes Charles Skene!” But, maybe, I myself was judging him hardly. He had a wider experience than I of the criminal genius’s infinite capacity for deception. No doubt the Italian’s story had really left him incredulous.