A builder who “took a chance” on the strength of a girder would have small credit in his profession.  A good bridge is one which will bear the strain—­not only of the pedestrian, but of the elephant.  A deluge or an earthquake may occur and the bridge may tumble, but next time it is built stronger and better.  Thus science progresses and the public interest is subserved.  A driver who overloads his beast is regarded as a fool or a brute.  Perhaps such names are too harsh for those who overload the moral backbone of an inexperienced subordinate.  Surely the fault is not all on one side.  While there are no formulas to calculate the resiliency of human character, we may demand the same prudence on the part of the officers of financial institutions as we do from nursemaids, lumbermen and manufacturers of explosives.  Though we may have confidence in the rectitude of our fellows, we have no right to ignore the limitations and weaknesses of mankind.  It would not outrage the principles of justice if one who placed needless and disproportionate strain upon the morals of another were himself regarded as an accessory to the crime.

VII

The “Duc de Nevers”

    “And God gives to every man
The virtue, temper, understanding, taste,
That lifts him into life, and lets him fall
Just in the niche he was ordained to fill.” 
      —­“The Task”—­COWPER.

One morning there lay on my desk a note finely written in pencil and dated: 

    TOMBS PRISON.

    MONSIEUR: 

    Will you be so gracious as to extend to the undersigned the courtesy
    of a private interview in your office?  I have a communication of the
    highest importance to make to you.

    Respectfully,

    CHARLES JULIUS FRANCIS DE NEVERS.

Across the street in the courtyard the prisoners were taking their daily exercise.  Two by two they marched slowly around the enclosure in the centre of which a small bed of geraniums struggled bravely in mortal combat with the dust and grime of Centre Street.  Some of the prisoners walked with heads erect and shoulders thrown back, others slouched along with their arms dangling and their chins resting upon their chests.  When one of them failed to keep up with the rest, a keeper, who stood in the shade by a bit of ivy in a corner of the wall, got after him.  Somehow the note on the desk did not seem to fit any one of the gentry whom I could see so distinctly from my window.  The name, too, did not have the customary Tombs sound—­De Nevers? De Nevaire—­I repeated it slowly to myself with varying accent.  It seemed as though I had known the name before.  It carried with it a suggestion of the novels of Stanley J. Weyman, of books on old towns and the chateaux and cathedrals of France.  I wondered who the devil Charles Julius Francis de Nevers could be.