Bennett had developed mentally without realising the logical result
of his development until it smote him with calamity. Of his betrayal
of trust as a guardian of property he thought nothing; of the
possibility of poverty for his family he thought a great deal--all
the more that his dreamer's mind was little accustomed to gripping
the practical. It was strange, he thought, that his final declaration
of war against his position should have been a little lacking in
dignity. He had not taken the decisive step through any deep
compassion of utter poverty bravely borne. His had been no more than
trivial pity of a young man's folly; and this was a frail thing on
which to make so great a sacrifice. Yet he regretted nothing. His
task of moral guardian of men and women had become impossible to him,
and sooner or later he must have given it up. And there was also his
family. "I must come to some decision," he said to himself firmly.
And then the great scream fell upon his ears and echoed through his
brain for ever and ever. It came from the house before which he was
standing, and he expected the whole street to wake aghast with the
horror of it. But there followed a silence that seemed to emphasise
the ugliness of the sound. Far away an engine screamed as if in
mocking imitation; and that was all. Bennett had counted up to a
hundred and seventy before the door of the house opened, and a man
came out on to the steps.
"Oh, constable," he said coolly, "come inside, will you? I have
something to show you."
Bennett mounted the steps doubtfully.
"There was a scream," he said.
The man looked at him quickly. "So you heard it," he said. "It was
not pretty."
"No, it was not," replied Bennett.
The man led him down the dim passage into the back sitting-room. The
body of a man lay on the sofa; it was curled like a dry leaf.
"That is my brother," said the man, with a little emphatic nod; "I
have killed him. He was my enemy."
Bennett stared dully at the body, without believing it to be really
there.
"Dead!" he said mechanically.
"And anything I say will be used against me in evidence! As if you
could compress my hatred into one little lying notebook."
"I don't care a damn about your hatred," said Bennett, with heat. "An
hour ago, perhaps, I might have arrested you; now I only find you
uninteresting."
The man gave a long, low whistle of surprise.
"A philosopher in uniform," he said, "God! sir, you have my
sympathy."
"And you have my pity. You have stolen your ideas from cheap
melodrama, and you make tragedy ridiculous. Were I a policeman, I
would lock you up with pleasure. Were I a man, I should thrash you
joyfully. As it is I can only share your infamy. I too, I suppose, am
a murderer."
"You are in a low, nervous state," said the man; "and you are doing
me some injustice. It is true that I am a poor murderer; but it
appears to me that you are a worse policeman."
"I shall wear the uniform no more from tonight."
"I think you are wise, and I shall mar my philosophy with no more
murders. If, indeed, I have killed him; for I assure you that beyond
administering the poison to his wretched body I have done nothing.
Perhaps he is not dead. Can you hear his heart beating?"
"I can hear the spoons of my children beating on their empty
platters!"
"Is it like that with you? Poor devil! Oh, poor, poor devil!
Philosophers should have no wives, no children, no homes, and no
hearts."
Bennett turned from the man with unspeakable loathing.
"I hate you and such as you!" he cried weakly. "You justify the
existence of the police. You make me despise myself because I realise
that your crimes are no less mine than yours. I do not ask you to
defend the deadness of that thing lying there. I shall stir no finger
to have you hanged, for the thought of suicide repels me, and I
cannot separate your blood and mine. We are common children of a
noble mother, and for our mother's sake I say farewell."
And without waiting for the man's answer he passed from the house to
the street.