“We’ll have cured it. Rather a wonderful thought. Have you ever studied the statistics of crime? No—very few people have. I have, though. You’d be amazed at the amount there is of adolescent crime, glands again, you see. Young Neil, the Oxfordshire murderer—killed five girls before he was suspected. Nice lad—never given any trouble of any kind. Lily Rose, the little Cornish girl—killed her uncle because he docked her of sweets. Hit him when he was asleep with a coal hammer. Went home and a fortnight later killed her elder sister who had annoyed her about some trifling matter. Neither of them hanged, of course. Sent to a home. May be all right later—may not. Doubt if the girl will. The only thing she cares about is seeing the pigs killed. Do you know when suicide is commonest? Fifteen to sixteen years of age. From self-murder to murder of someone else isn’t a very long step. But it’s not a moral lack—it’s a physical one.”
“What you say is terrible!”
“No—it’s only new to you. New truths have to be faced. One’s ideas adjusted. But sometimes—it makes life difficult.”
He sat there, frowning, yet with a strange look of weariness.
“Haydock,” I said, “if you suspected—if you knew—that a certain person was a murderer, would you give that person up to the law, or would you be tempted to shield them?”
I was quite unprepared for the effect of my question. He turned on me angrily and suspiciously.
“What makes you say that, Clement? What’s in your mind? Out with it, man.”
“Why, nothing particular,” I said, rather taken aback. “Only—well, murder is in our minds just now. If by any chance you happened to