"Go on," I said.

No answer came.

"Go on," I said, looking up.

The big blue eyes of Basil Grant were standing out of his head and
he was paying no attention to me. He was staring over the side of
the tram.

"What is the matter?" I asked, peering over also.

"It is very odd," said Grant at last, grimly, "that I should have
been caught out like this at the very moment of my optimism. I said
all these people were good, and there is the wickedest man in
England."

"Where?" I asked, leaning over further, "where?"

"Oh, I was right enough," he went on, in that strange continuous
and sleepy tone which always angered his hearers at acute moments,
"I was right enough when I said all these people were good. They
are heroes; they are saints. Now and then they may perhaps steal a
spoon or two; they may beat a wife or two with the poker. But they
are saints all the same; they are angels; they are robed in white;
they are clad with wings and haloes--at any rate compared to that
man."

"Which man?" I cried again, and then my eye caught the figure at