“No one has a profounder reverence, Murtle, than have I for those who make a practice of rendering unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar’s,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, who, unhappy as he was, spoke with the humility of a Christian gentleman; “but--but the misguided young man restored the money himself, and I have every reason to believe it is his first deviation from the path of strict rectitude.” “Crumpett,” said Sir Topman Murtle, placing his own white and fleshy hand, whose finger-nails were carefully trimmed, upon the shoulder of his friend with a firmness that was remarkable, “your scruples do honour to your good heart, but I feel sure they are misplaced. Whatever it may cost you, you must discharge your duty to the State. That duty must necessarily be distasteful--to the sensitive mind it always is; but pray remember, Crumpett, that you will not be the only martyr to the inexorable cause of the public. And it has always seemed to me, Crumpett, that the greater the pain we incur in following a given course of action, the more imperative, the more sacred the need for that course of action becomes.” Mr. Octavius Crumpett heaved a profound sigh. “Yes, Murtle,” he said, with the meekness of one at the feet of Gamaliel, “you have worked out that beautiful idea in _The Angel’s Bride_; but really I would that this question were one that a stronger and wiser and more competent nature had to decide.” “The question, Crumpett, decides itself,” said Sir Topman Murtle in a manner that seemed to imply that a stronger and wiser and more competent nature had already decided it. And indeed, as Sir Topman Murtle said, the question did decide itself, for at this moment William Jordan, wearing his overcoat, and carrying his hat, entered the room. He was accompanied by a stalwart police constable. “It is my wish, sir,” said the young man, speaking in a calm and clear voice, “to place myself in the hands of justice.” Mr. Octavius Crumpett heaved a sigh of relief. He, too, had passed through his mental crisis. XXXIV On the following morning, within the precincts of a stuffy, drab-coloured, malodorous building, which was so seldom visited by daylight that the gas was already lit, Mr. Octavius Crumpett, looking grave and perturbed, accepted by the invitation of the presiding magistrate and a fellow-member of his club, one Mr. Ashmole Pursglove, C.B., Q.C., a seat on the bench. The prisoner, worn and pale, was already standing in the dock. Below him was a solicitor engaged by Mr. James Dodson at the suggestion of Mr. Octavius Crumpett. Mr. Dodson himself was beside him. A close observer would have said that his own composure was considerably less than that of the accused.