When he achieved perception, it
came oddly mingled with recollections of the little tragedies of his
children at home. For some one was crying like a child in the little
room where Mr. Gurney brow-beat recalcitrant borrowers. Dangerous
burglars do not weep, and Bennett hesitated no longer, but stepped
past the open flaps of the counter, and threw open the door of the
inner office.
The electric light had been switched on, and at the table there sat a
slight young man with his face buried in his hands, crying bitterly.
Behind him the safe stood open and empty, and the grate was filled
with smouldering embers of burnt paper. Bennett went up to the
young man and placed his hand on his shoulder. But the young man wept
on and did not move.
Try as he might Bennett could not help relaxing the grip of outraged
law, and patting the young man's shoulder soothingly as it rose and
fell. He had no fit weapons of roughness and oppression with which to
oppose this child-like grief; he could only fight tears with tears.
"Come," he said gently, "you must pull yourself together."
At the sound of his voice the young man gave a great sob and then was
silent, shivering a little.
"That's better," said Bennett encouragingly, "much better."
"I have burnt everything," the young man said suddenly, "and now the
place is empty. I was nearly sick just now."
Bennett looked at him sympathetically, as one dreamer may look at
another, who is sad with action dreamed too often for scatheless
accomplishment.
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