“Well,” said Paynter, with his ready appreciation, “I always said you were a remarkable man; and that’s certainly a remarkable idea.”

“Do I understand,” asked the poet, kicking his heels on the cobbles, “that both you gentlemen have been kindly directing me toward the gallows?”

“No,” said Paynter thoughtfully.  “I never thought you guilty; and even supposing I had, if you understand me, I should never have thought it quite so guilty to be guilty.  It would not have been for money or any mean thing, but for something a little wilder and worthier of a man of genius.  After all, I suppose, the poet has passions like great unearthly appetites; and the world has always judged more gently of his sins.  But now that Mr. Ashe admits your innocence, I can honestly say I have always affirmed it.”

The poet rose also.  “Well, I am innocent, oddly enough,” he said.  “I think I can make a guess about your vanishing well, but of the death and dry bones I know no more than the dead; if so much.  And, by the way, my dear Paynter”—­and he turned two bright eyes on the art critic—­“I will excuse you from excusing me for all the things I haven’t done; and you, I hope, will excuse me if I differ from you altogether about the morality of poets.  As you suggest, it is a fashionable view, but I think it is a fallacy.  No man has less right to be lawless than a man of imagination.  For he has spiritual adventures, and can take his holidays when he likes.  I could picture the poor Squire carried off to elfland whenever I wanted him carried off, and that wood needed no crime to make it wicked for me.  That red sunset the other night was all that a murder would have been to many men.  No, Mr. Ashe; show, when next you sit in judgment, a little mercy to some wretched man who drinks and robs because he must drink beer to taste it, and take it to drink it.  Have compassion on the next batch of poor thieves, who have to hold things in order to have them.  But if ever you find me stealing one small farthing, when I can shut my eyes and see the city of El Dorado, then”—­and he lifted his head like a falcon—­“show me no mercy, for I shall deserve none.”

“Well,” remarked Ashe, after a pause, “I must go and fix things up for the inquest.  Mr. Treherne, your attitude is singularly interesting; I really almost wish I could add you to my collection of murderers.  They are a varied and extraordinary set.”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” asked Paynter, “that perhaps the men who have never committed murder are a varied and very extraordinary set?  Perhaps every plain man’s life holds the real mystery, the secret of sins avoided.”

“Possibly,” replied Ashe.  “It would be a long business to stop the next man in the street and ask him what crimes he never committed and why not.  And I happen to be busy, so you’ll excuse me.”

“What,” asked the American, when he and the poet were alone, “is this guess of yours about the vanishing water?”