“It is curious, Pursglove,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “what an insight into the human heart is given to some men. You know Murtle. Well, Murtle said to me, after having witnessed the man give himself into custody, ‘There is not the least doubt in my mind, Crumpett, that that man is capable of anything.’ And I little thought when Murtle said this, upon, as I considered, very insufficient data, how amply his judgment was to be confirmed.” After Mr. Octavius Crumpett had shaken hands very cordially with the presiding magistrate, had also thanked him for his disinterested services, and further, had subscribed five pounds to the funds of the court, he entered a hansom and requested to be driven to his club. In the course of the journey he continually made the observation: “Murtle was right! Murtle was quite right! What an astonishing insight that man has into the human heart!” XXXVI In the meantime Mr. James Dodson had hurriedly left the precincts of the court. He had made his way headlong to the refreshment buffet of the Brontë Hotel. “Chrissie,” said the eminent philosopher, “I want something that in the quickest possible time will make me blind to the world. And as soon as I am blind to the world I want you to put me in a cab and send me home.” “What’s up, Jimmy?” said the lady at the buffet, betraying a lively curiosity. “It isn’t love, because I know by experience that you are not built in that way.” “A lot you know about it,” said the philosopher hoarsely. “You think because you have thrown me over twice and I have not said a word about it, I haven’t got any feelings at all. You are wrong, Chrissie. If you touch me in the right spot I have to squeal just like anybody else. I want to knock my head against that beer-engine until I can’t feel anything more. And why do you think I want to do that?” “Ask me another, James Dodson,” said the siren. “But for whatever reason you want to do it, I know very well it is not love.” “Well, if it is not love,” said Mr. Dodson, “I don’t know what the name is for it. Here is a chap I have known seven years, who was nothing to me at first, who was not the kind of chap a fellow like me would take up with, who has been found guilty of doing things--not one thing mind you, but two--and although he has been found guilty, I say--and he owns up himself--and he has just been put away for six months’ hard labour--the whole business makes me feel--makes me feel, Chrissie, as though I want to commit a murder.” “Whatever you do, Jimmy,” said the siren, who was genuinely alarmed, “you must keep off brandy. You are absolutely off the square. I can’t make out what is the matter with you; I should have said you would have been the last chap in the world to let go like this.”