Derek and Sheila had vanished, and in the street outside, idle at this
hour of a working-day, were only the cars of the four magistrates; two
or three little knots of those who had been in court, talking of the
case; and in the very centre of the street, an old, dark-whiskered man,
lame, and leaning on a stick.

"Very nearly being awkward," said the voice of Mr. Pogram in his ear. "I
say, do you think--no hand himself, surely no real hand himself?"

Felix shook his head violently. If the thought had once or twice
occurred to him, he repudiated it with all his force when shaped by
another's mouth--and such a mouth, so wide and rubbery!

"No, no! Strange boy! Extravagant sense of honour--too sensitive, that's
all!"

"Quite so," murmured Mr. Pogram soothingly. "These young people! We live
in a queer age, Mr. Freeland. All sorts of ideas about, nowadays. Young
men like that--better in the army--safe in the army. No ideas there!"

"What happens now?" said Felix.

"Wait!" said Mr. Pogram. "Nothing else for it--wait. Three
months--twiddle his thumbs. Bad system! Rotten!"

"And suppose in the end he's proved innocent?"

Mr. Pogram shook his little round head, whose ears were very red.

"Ah!" he said: "Often say to my wife: 'Wish I weren't a humanitarian!'
Heart of india-rubber--excellent thing--the greatest blessing. Well,
good-morning! Anything you want to say at any time, let me know!" And
exhaling an overpowering whiff of gutta-percha, he grasped Felix's
hand and passed into a house on the door of which was printed in brazen
letters: "Edward Pogram, James Collet. Solicitors. Agents."

On leaving the little humanitarian, Felix drifted back toward the court.
The cars were gone, the groups dispersed; alone, leaning on his stick,
the old, dark-whiskered man stood like a jackdaw with a broken wing.
Yearning, at that moment, for human intercourse, Felix went up to him.

"Fine day," he said.

"Yes, sir, 'tis fine enough." And they stood silent, side by side. The
gulf fixed by class and habit between soul and human soul yawned before
Felix as it had never before. Stirred and troubled, he longed to open
his heart to this old, ragged, dark-eyed, whiskered creature with the
game leg, who looked as if he had passed through all the thorns and
thickets of hard and primitive existence; he longed that the old fellow
should lay bare to him his heart. And for the life of him he could not
think of any mortal words which might br