“Pretend,” he said, “that all I have said hasn’t been said. You’re neither of you any longer under arrest. I have suspected him of possessing a skeleton key to my apartments. With your pencil you see into the hearts of all; and without your pencil you are dumb and blind. “What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. But not so much a pig as that man. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral.
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