"Well you're right." Evans twisted himself about in his chair, and
hung his legs over one of the arms.
"The real reason why I wish you to preach this sermon is because I
have just been offering a fee to the head-waiter at our hotel."
"And you feel degraded with him by his acceptance? For it _is_
a degradation."
"No, that's the strangest thing about it. I have a monopoly of the
degradation, for he didn't take my dollar."
"Ah, then a sermon won't help _you!_ Why wouldn't he take it?"
"He said he didn't know as he wanted any money he hadn't earned,"
said Evans, with a touch of mimicry.
The minister started up from his lounging attitude. "Is his name--
Barker?" he asked, with unerring prescience.
"Yes," said Evans with a little surprise. "Do you know him?"
"Yes," returned the minister, falling back in his chair helplessly,
not luxuriously. "So well that I knew it was he almost as soon as
you came into the room to-night."
"What harm have you been doing him?" demanded the editor, in parody
of the minister's acuteness in guessing the guilty operation of his
own mind.
"The greatest. I'm the cause of his being in Boston."
"This is very interesting," said Evans. "We are companions in crime--pals.
It's a great honour. But what strikes me as being so interesting is that
we appear to feel remorse for our misdeeds; and I was almost persuaded
the other day by an observer of our species, that remorse had gone out,
or rather had never existed, except in the fancy of innocent people;
that real criminals like ourselves were afraid of being found out, but
weren't in the least sorry.
Pages:
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245