And yet it was not without some fleeting sense of guilt that Friar Bosworth rode homeward that evening. Something in his conscience, some long-neglected imp of the heart had rebelled, and was crying out for justice. JUSTICE it cried! — a muffled imp at best, of course, but insistent nevertheless. And the Friar, as he walked on swinging his cane, could not rid himself of the feeling that perhaps, for all his scholastic skill, there was an argument here he could not counter.