“That is easy to explain,” asserted Mr. Tutt.  “The criminal law originally dealt only with crimes of violence—­such as murder, rape and assault.  In the old days people didn’t have any property in the modern sense—­except their land, their cattle or their weapons.  They had no bonds or stock or bank accounts.  Now it is of course true that rough, ignorant people are much more prone to violence of speech and action than those of gentle breeding, and hence most of our crimes of violence are committed by those whose lives are those of squalor.  But”—­and here Mr. Tutt’s voice rose indignantly—­“our greatest mistake is to assume that crimes of violence are the most dangerous to the state, for they are not.  They cause greater disturbance and perhaps more momentary inconvenience, but they do not usually evince much moral turpitude.  After all, it does no great harm if one man punches another in the head, or even in a fit of anger sticks a dagger in him.  The police can easily handle all that.  The real danger to the community lies in the crimes of duplicity—­the cheats, frauds, false pretenses, tricks and devices, flimflams—­practised most successfully by well-dressed gentlemanly crooks of polished manners.”

By this time the kettle was boiling cheerfully, quite as if no such thing as criminal law existed at all, and Miss Wiggin began to make the tea.

“All the same,” she ruminated, “people—­particularly very poor people—­are often driven to crime by necessity.”

“It’s Nature’s first law,” contributed Tutt brightly.

Mr. Tutt uttered a snort of disgust.

“It may be Nature’s first law, but it’s about the weakest defense a guilty man can offer.  ‘I couldn’t help myself’ has always been the excuse for helping oneself!”

“Rather good—­that!” approved Miss Wiggin.  “Can you do it again?”

“The victim of circumstances is inevitably one who has made a victim of someone else,” blandly went on Mr. Tutt without hesitation.

“Ting-a-ling!  Right on the bell!” she laughed.

“It’s true!” he assured her seriously.  “There are two defenses that are played out—­necessity and instigation.  They’ve never been any good since the Almighty overruled Adam’s plea in confession and avoidance that a certain female co-defendant took advantage of his hungry innocence and put him up to it.”

“No one could respect a man who tried to hide behind a woman’s skirts!” commented Tutt.

“Are you referring to Adam?” inquired his partner.  “Anyhow, come to think of it, the maxim is not that ’Necessity is the first law of Nature,’ but that ‘Necessity knows no law.’”

“I’ll bet you—­” began Tutt.  Then he paused, recalling a certain celebrated wager which he had lost to Mr. Tutt upon the question of who cut Samson’s hair.  “I bet you don’t know who said it!” he concluded lamely.

“If I recall correctly,” ruminated Mr. Tutt, “Shakspere says in ’Julius Caesar’ that ‘Nature must obey necessity’; while Rabelais says ‘Necessity has no law’; but the quotation we familiarly use is ‘Necessity knows no law except to conquer,’ which is from Publilius Syrus.”