last grim lines of the imaginary history had been translated for him,
Pumpenheim felt some observation on his part to be called for.

"So-o?" he said, "so-o?"

But I heard incredulity in his voice. Blenkin read it in his face. The
prisoner did not believe a word of the tale. He was indifferent to the
homily.

Blenkin, defeated, leaned back in his chair. "I give it up," he said.
"You have a try at him."

I looked at Pumpenheim. His narrow eyes turned to me.

"If you had offered the money to a German officer," I said, and the
interpreter repeated the words--"if you had offered the money to a
German officer he--might--have--taken--it."

Slowly a look of comprehension crossed the face of Adolf Hans
Pumpenheim. It was like sunrise upon his grey and stubbly countenance,
where three days' growth of beard had thriven in the soil of the
guard-room. He was not altogether happy, for he had been found
guilty and had paid a fine. But in the course of this ceremony, which
appeared to him mystical and obscure, he had encountered one familiar
idea, one thought within his power of understanding. Rectitude was
a stranger to him, but corruption an old friend: He was not abashed;
rather, on the contrary, he was cheered and encouraged. I could see
that his heart warmed to me in particular, and I believe that but for
his respect for the Court he would have paid me the compliment of a
wink.