Like a lover, he would watch for the appearance of the vile motive, the self-interest, that "must be," _he knew_, at the heart of this or that deed or proceeding of apparent benevolence or generosity.

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.