“Precisely; and specifically as to revenge.  The criminal, from the murderer to the petty pilferer, is actuated solely by the spirit of vengeance—­vengeance blind and speechless—­towards a system that forces him into a position quite outside his natural instincts.”

“As to that, we have left Nature in the thicket.  It is hopeless hunting for her now.”

“We hear her breathing sometimes, my friend.  Otherwise Her Majesty’s prison locks would rust.  But, I grant you, we have grown so unfamiliar with her that we call her simplest manifestations supernatural nowadays.”

“That reminds me.  I visited F——­ this afternoon.  The man was in a queer way—­not foxing, in my opinion.  Hysteria, probably.”

“Oh!  What was the matter with him?”

“The form it took was some absurd prejudice about the next cell—­number 47, He swore it was not empty—­was quite upset about it—­said there was some infernal influence at work in his neighbourhood.  Nerves, he finds, I suppose, may revenge themselves on one who has made a habit of playing tricks with them.  To satisfy him, I asked Johnson to open the door of the next cell—­”

“Well?”

“He refused.”

“It is closed by my orders.”

“That settles it, of course.  The manner of Johnson’s refusal was a bit uncivil, but—­”

He had been looking at me intently all this time—­so intently that I was conscious of a little embarrassment and confusion.  His mouth was set like a dash between brackets, and his eyes glistened.  Now his features relaxed, and he gave a short high neigh of a laugh.

“My dear fellow, you must make allowances for the rough old lurcher.  He was a soldier.  He is all cut and measured out to the regimental pattern.  With him Major Shrike, like the king, can do no wrong.  Did I ever tell you he served under me in India?  He did; and, moreover, I saved his life there.”

“In an engagement?”

“Worse—­from the bite of a snake.  It was a mere question of will.  I told him to wake and walk, and he did.  They had thought him already in rigor mortis; and, as for him—­well, his devotion to me since has been single to the last degree.”

“That’s as it should be.”

“To be sure.  And he’s quite in my confidence.  You must pass over the old beggar’s churlishness.”

I laughed an assent.  And then an odd thing happened.  As I spoke, I had walked over to a bookcase on the opposite side of the room to that on which my host stood.  Near this bookcase hung a mirror—­an oblong affair, set in brass repousse work—­on the wall; and, happening to glance into it as I approached, I caught sight of the Major’s reflection as he turned his face to follow my movement.

I say “turned his face”—­a formal description only.  What met my startled gaze was an image of some nameless horror—­of features grooved, and battered, and shapeless, as if they had been torn by a wild beast.