Of course she might be wrong. It was still possible that her original
conception of him might be the correct one. He had a passion for his
profession, she knew. It was quite possible that this had inspired his
taking that awful risk the night before, quite possible also that a
hopeless case did not appeal to him and that he had not therefore
greatly cared how soon or in what manner Mrs. Stubbs had passed out
through the prison-door which it was his work to guard. She realized
vaguely that this form of callousness was not so hideous as she had at
first deemed it. She also began to realize that for a man who had seen
suffering and death in many forms and who found himself finally
powerless to alleviate the one or avert the other, the inevitable end
could not possess the tragic significance which it possessed for others.

Either point of view of his character was possible. She did not know him
well enough to decide to her own satisfaction which was actually the
true one. But the fact remained that she had delivered him to Violet to
be tormented, and that before he had given any sign of suffering she had
repented the rash act. He might be capable of suffering or he might not;
but she had a passionate desire to know him safe before the fire had
begun to kindle.

Violet's return at length broke up her reflections. She awoke from her
reverie with a start to exclaim upon the lateness of the hour. It was
already close upon luncheon-time.

"We shall have to scorch," laughed Violet.

And scorch they did at a rate that made the sober Mitchel swear
inarticulately almost throughout the journey. They met with no mishap,
however, and finally reached Weir flushed, dishevelled, but exultant.