The Green Jacket (Mystery Classics Series). Jennette Lee

supreme bench," he offered.

      She shook her head. "I'd rather be judge of the criminal court," she responded, smiling.

      "Oh—well. Have it your own way!"

      The irony was magnificent. "I mean to. . . . I couldn't have my own way—and stay with you."

      He hedged a little. "Well——"

      She smiled and shook her head. "You couldn't stand for it. . . . No, I want something quite different, Tom. . . . It isn't common sense to go on catching folks and locking them up forever, or for a little while—and then letting them run loose. . . . And the punishments we think up don't really punish them. We put a man in prison. Of course, he doesn't like it——"

      "Well, hardly," said Tom dryly.

      "But, after all, the worst punishment for most of us is—living right along in the world and knowing everybody has found you out and despises you and thinks of it every time they see you. That's what his wife and daughters have to live through every day, and his mother. They have to face the dis grace everywhere they go. I'd like to fix things so it wouldn't come quite so hard on them. . . . I want to say what shall be done with the criminal I catch!" she concluded.

      "Send 'em flowers, the way the 'ladies' do!" sneered Tom. "Sentimental bosh! We've got to protect society. That's our work."

      "Yes—it's part of it."

      He got up irritably and moved across the room.

      "Do you mind if I smoke?"

      "No."

      He filled his pipe, crowding down the tobacco with stern touch. He lighted it and drew a whiff or two, and came back to his place and sat down and looked at her.

      "Go on," he said.

      She glanced up.

      "Tell me the rest," he nodded.

      "There isn't any rest," said Milly, laughing. "That's all!"

      "I should judge so! What becomes of 'em after that?"

      "Well— This is the part you particularly won't like," she said hastily— "I decide whether they are to have another chance—or to go to prison."

      "You——!"

      She nodded. "I told you, you wouldn't like it. I wasn't sure myself how it would work—when I began. I only knew I was tired of catching criminals to turn over to the police, and the police handing them over to the judge, and the judge handing them over to the prison, and the prison— Well, you know, Tom, what they are when they come out of prison! It's a little better now under the new ideas—but not much! . . . Why, you know, and I know, that half the men in prison ought never to have been sent there. It's bad for them—bad for society."

      He stirred uneasily. "That isn't our affair," he said. "Our business is to catch 'em. What becomes of 'em after that doesn't concern us!"

      "It concerns me!" said Milly. "I got so I couldn't sleep nights, thinking of men in prison that would never have been there if it hadn't been for me! Men that I knew weren't really bad—drunk or mad or something! I made up my mind that if I did the catching, I was going to have something to say about the punishment."

      "The law takes care of that!" retorted Tom.

      "Not if it doesn't get to the law—" She smiled at him disarmingly. "That's where I come in."

      He made a little gesture. But she ignored the scorn in it.

      "It isn't so hard as you think—if you just try to see what's right—and forget about the law."

      He laughed shortly. "No doubt!"

      "We all slip sometimes," she went on. "Everybody slips. You do and I do——"

      He raised a protesting hand.

      She nodded. "And it isn't fair, just because somebody sees you go down—or hunts around and finds out afterward about it—that you should be punished, and another man who isn't found out goes free."

      "It's the law," said Tom feebly.

      "It's unjust!" said Milly. "And it isn't common sense! I've thought about it a good deal," she added mildly.

      "Evidently," murmured Tom. He was smoking slowly and looking at her with half-shut eyes.

      "It seems to me," she went on, "that doing wrong is a good deal like the attraction of gravity. Everybody's liable to take a tumble some time. Of course if you sit still like a lump of dough, you're safe enough. But folks that fly around lively are liable to slip, most any time."

      Tom chuckled.

      "And perhaps just slipping is punishment enough—for some folks," she pursued. "If they come down good and hard, maybe they won't slip again for a good while—perhaps not ever."

      "Perhaps not," sneered Tom. "But who is going to tell?"

      "If a man tells a straight story, he ought to have another chance," said Milly firmly.

      "And who's going to judge whether he's straight?" persisted Tom.

      Her color rose a little. "I told you I judge that myself."

      He looked at her. "You think you are competent to do it, I suppose?" The irony was very gentle and she brushed it aside.

      "Of course I am not competent, Tom! Nobody is! But it's better than shutting them up in prison—at the expense of the State—and all the shame and poverty for his wife and children. . . . Besides," she said slowly, "you do know, pretty well, when a man's telling a straight story. You know, better than you think you do, when a man's sincere. And they want to be straight! Why, I've seen them sometimes, Tom"—she leaned forward eagerly—"I've seen them try—when they got the idea that all they had to do was to tell a straight story—I've seen them try till it was pathetic.

      "They are pathetic!" she declared. "And they are sick—some of them—they can't tell the truth, no matter how hard they try.

      "A man that can't tell the truth ought to be in prison just as much as if he had a temperature. He's got a germ—he needs a cathartic or something!" She fired it at him, and his eyes twinkled. "He's better off in a hospital— Only they're such pest-houses, the prisons we have now," she added reluctantly. "But they're the best we've got; and you can't leave a man with a smallpox germ going around loose, nor a confirmed criminal—not one that lies," she concluded.

      Tom laughed out shortly. "You make out a good case, Milly. You ought to be a lawyer!"

      She flushed. "You say that for a compliment—but it isn't!"

      "How about your clients?" said Tom abruptly. "Don't they kick?"

      "They have to sign for it beforehand," said Milly.

      He stared. "You mean—they agree—to let you—" He broke off before the absurdity of it.

      "They have to," she said tranquilly. She rolled up her work and tossed it into the drawer and opened another drawer, at the right, and took out a paper.

      "This is my form of agreement." She handed it to him and he read it through and whistled softly.

      "You mean they sign—for that!" He held it up, shaking it a little.

      She nodded. A smile broke across her face. "I should ask you to sign it if we go into partnership," she said quietly.

      He handed it back to her with a quick, negative gesture.

      "Not for me, Milly!" he said decisively.

      "I told you you wouldn't stand for it," she replied. She replaced the paper in the drawer and closed it. His eye followed the movement.

      "I never dreamed of anything like that!" he retorted sternly.

      "Better try dreaming it for a while," she responded. "There's more in it than you think, perhaps!"

      He nodded gloomily. "But