truth.

“We will have no argument about it, Westby,” said Irving. “Please climb
the ladder at once and release Allison.”

“I beg of you, Mr. Upton,” said Westby in a tone of distress, “don’t,
please don’t, confuse argument with impartial inquiry; nothing is more
distasteful to me than argument. I merely ask for investigation; I court
it in your own interest as well as mine.”

Irving grew rigid. His head was throbbing painfully; the continued
snickering all round him and Westby’s increasing confidence and fluency
grated on his nerves. He drew out his watch.

“I will give you one minute in which to climb that ladder,” he said.

“Mr. Upton, you wish to be a just man,” pleaded Westby. “Even though you
have the great weight of authority—and years”—Westby choked a
laugh—“behind you, don’t do an unjust and arbitrary thing. Allison
himself wouldn’t have you—would you, Allison?”

The victim grinned uncomfortably.

“Mr. Upton,” urged Westby, “you wouldn’t have me soil these hands?” He
displayed his laudably clean, pink fingers. “Of course, if I go up there
I shall get my hands all dirty—and equally of course if I had been up
there, they would be all dirty now. Surely you believe in the value of
circumstantial evidence; therefore, before we fix the responsibility,
let us search for the dirty pair of hands.”