And then he would wake—­to find Mavis bending over him, to hear her saying, “My dearest, you are sleeping on your back, and it is making you dream.”  He clung to her desperately, muttering, “Quite right, Mav.  Don’t let me dream.  It’s a fullish trick—­dreaming.”

Then he would settle himself to sleep again, thinking, “It is all no use.  I love my wife; I bless her for the generous way in which she has risked all that money to give me a fresh start; I enjoy the work; I believe I may succeed with the business—­but I shall never know real peace of mind.  And sooner or later my crime will be brought home to me.  It is always so.  I’ve read it in the papers a dozen times.  Murderers never get off altogether.  Years and years pass; but at last justice overtakes them.”

Already, although he did not recognize it, had come remorse for the wickedness of his deed.  He had no regret for the fact itself, and not the slightest pity for the victim.  Mr. Barradine had got no more than he deserved, the only proper adequate punishment for his offenses; but Dale knew that, according to the tenets of all religions, God does not allow private individuals to mete out punishment, however well deserved—­especially not the death penalty.

He resolutely revived his idea of the dead man as a thing unfit to live—­just a brute, without a man’s healthy instincts—­a foul debauchee, ruining sweet and comely innocence whenever he could get at it.  Such a wretch would be executed by any sensible community.  In new countries they would lynch him as soon as they caught him—­“A lot of chaps like myself would ride off their farms, heft him up on the nearest tree, and empty their revolvers into him.  And it wouldn’t be a murder:  it would be a rough and ready execution.  Well, I did the job by myself, without sharing the responsibility with my pals; and I consider myself an executioner, not a murderer.”

He could now always make the hate and horror return and be as strong as they had ever been, and thus solidify the argument whereby he found his justification; no mercy is possible for such brutes.  Subconsciously he was always striving to reinforce it; as if the voice of that logical faculty which he admired as his highest attribute were always whispering advice, reminding him:  “This is your strong point.  It is the only firm ground you stand on.  You can’t possibly hope to justify yourself to other people; but if you don’t justify yourself to yourself, then you are truly done for.”

And he used to think:  “I have justified myself to myself all along.  I was never one who considered human life so sacred as some try to make out.  Why should it be?  Aren’t we proved to be animals—­along with the rest?  The parsons own it nowadays themselves, allowing a man’s soul to be what God counts most important, but not going so far as to say any animal’s soul isn’t immortal too.  Then where’s the sacredness?  If it’s right to kill a vicious dog or a poisonous snake, how is it so wrong to out a man that won’t behave himself?”