‘I can’t understand the motive of Rayner’s confession, Bloxam,’ Henry Hindes would observe confidentially to his cashier. ‘It would never have been found out to the day of his death, and what good does the disclosure effect? Here is a respectable tradesman, with a wife and family dependent on him--respected by his friends and customers--rich and flourishing in his trade--and he throws it all away for the sake of confessing his participation in a crime which the world has forgotten ages ago, and which he cannot rectify, even by swinging on the gallows.’ ‘That is true, sir,’ replied Mr Bloxam, ‘but you don’t take into consideration that Rayner’s conscience would not, in all probability, let him keep silence any longer. A murder must lie pretty heavy on a man’s soul, Mr Hindes. I don’t suppose he has had much rest at night, poor creature, however much he may have prospered outwardly. And he is an old man too--sixty the papers say--and begins to think, no doubt, of meeting his Maker, face to face, with that sin unconfessed. My wonder is how he has managed to live through so many years with such a burthen on his conscience. He must have led a terrible life!’ Hindes’ face grew very yellow during this exordium, but the subject fascinated him, as fire is said to fascinate some people, and a precipice others, until they can hardly resist the temptation to cast themselves down headlong. ‘But why should a murder, dreadful as it is, lie so much heavier on a man’s conscience than his other sins? Look! how many murders are committed by most of us! We strike a blow, perhaps, which might have killed a fellow. If it had, we should have been arraigned as a murderer; since it does not, we go scot-free. But the feeling of murder was there all the same. We are just as guilty in the sight of Heaven. Why should we vex ourselves about one sin more than the other?’ ‘I’m not fit to argue the point with you, Mr Henry,’ answered the cashier, ‘but there’s surely a difference! We don’t always mean to murder a friend when we hit him. If we _do_ kill him, even by accident, we have to pay the penalty. But when a man deliberately injures another, knowing it _must_ kill him, like this Rayner, who strikes a fellow creature on the head with a hammer--why, that was deliberate murder--he _meant_ to kill Thompson, and he must be a thorough bad man to have kept the secret in his breast for twenty years. Hanging’s too good for him; that’s what everybody says.’ ‘But telling won’t bring Thompson back again, that’s my argument,’ said Henry Hindes, sullenly. ‘Rayner hangs himself by his confession, and does no one any good.’