Heneage nodded.
"Your view of life," he remarked, "was always a sentimental one."
"No correct view," Wrayson declared, "can ignore sentiment."
"Granted; but it must be true sentiment, not false," Heneage said. "This sentiment which interferes with justice is false sentiment."
"Justice is altogether an arbitrary, a relative phrase," Wrayson declared. "I know no more about the case of Morris Barnes than you do. I knew the man by sight and repute, and I knew the manner of his life, and it seems to me a likely thing that there is more human justice about his death than in the punishing the person who compassed it."
"There are cases of that sort," Heneage admitted. "That is the advantage of being an amateur, like myself. My discoveries, if I make any, are my own. I am not bound to publish them."
Wrayson smiled a little bitterly.
"You would be less than human if you didn't," he said.
Heneage rose to his feet and began putting on his coat. Wrayson remained in his seat, without offering to help him.
"So I may take it, I suppose," he said, as he moved towards the door, "that my visit to you is a failure?"
"I have not the slightest idea of running away, if that is what you mean," Wrayson answered. "I am obliged to you for your warning, but what I did I am prepared to stand by."
"I am sorry," Heneage answered. "Good night!"
