Not being able to translate him, I got him more
or less by heart. Here's the argument, then. . . . Supposing a
friend makes a deposit with you, that's a debt, eh? Of course it is.
But suppose it's a deposit of arms, or of money to buy arms, and he
comes to you and asks for it when he's not in his right senses, and
you know he's not, and he'll--like as not--play the devil with that
deposit, if you restore it. What then?"
"If I thought that Farrell was in danger," I mused; "that's to say,
in any immediate danger--"
"Rats!" said Jimmy contemptuously. "Farrell's a third party.
Why drag in a third party? The Professor's _your_ friend; and he's
made a deposit with you: and you don't need to think of anyone but
him. For he's _mad_. . . . Now, come along to the smoking-room,
where I've ordered them to take the coffee, and where I'll give you
ten minutes to pull up your socks and do a bit of thinking."
"Maybe you're right, Jimmy," said I as we lit our cigarettes.
"And if so, it's pretty ghastly. . . . He's had enough to put him
off his hinge. But somehow I can't bring myself--No, hang it!
I've always looked on Jack as the sanest man I've ever known.
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