Often, alas! the thing was provable; and, where he did not find,
he was quick to invent; and, where he failed in finding or
inventing, he not the less believed the bad motive was there, and
followed the slightest seeming trail of the cunning demon only
the more eagerly. What a smile was his when he heard, which truly
he was not in the way to hear often, the praise of some good
deed, or an ascription of high end to some endeavor of one of the
vile race to which he belonged! Do those who abuse their kind
actually believe they are of it? Do they hold themselves
exceptions? Do they never reflect that it must be because such is
their own nature, whether their accusation be true or false, that
they know how to attribute such motives to their fellows? Or is
it that, actually and immediately rejoicing in iniquity, they
delight in believing it universal?
Quiet as a panther, Redmain was, I say, always in pursuit, if not
of something sensual for himself, then of something evil in
another. He would sit at his club, silent and watching, day after
day, night after night, waiting for the chance that should cast
light on some idea of detection, on some doubt, bewilderment, or
conjecture. He would ask the farthest-off questions: who could
tell what might send him into the track of discovery? He would
give to the talk the strangest turns, laying trap after trap to
ensnare the most miserable of facts, elevated into a desirable
secret only by his hope to learn through it something equally
valueless beyond it.
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