man with a weight lifted from his mind, now he looked thoroughly rattled and upset.
And yet I was convinced that he meant what he said. He was fond of both Anne Protheroe and Lawrence Redding. Why, then, this gloomy absorption?
He roused himself with an effort.
“I meant to tell you about Hawes. All this business has driven him out of my mind.”
“Is he really ill?”
“There’s nothing radically wrong with him. You know, of course, that he’s had Encephalitis Lethargica, sleepy sickness, as it’s commonly called?”
“No,” I said, very much surprised, “I didn’t know anything of the kind. He never told me anything about it. When did he have it?”
“About a year ago. He recovered all right—as far as one ever recovers. It’s a strange disease—has a queer moral effect. The whole character may change after it.”
He was silent for a moment or two, and then said:
“We think with horror now of the days when we burnt witches. I believe the day will come when we will shudder to think that we ever hanged criminals.”
“You don’t believe in capital punishment?”
“It’s not so much that.” He paused. “You know,” he said slowly, “I’d rather have my job than yours.”
“Why?”