‘Best possible authority.  Told me so yourself,’ said the lawyer.  ’But if you tell me contrary now, of course I’m bound to believe either the one story or the other.  Point is I’ve upset this bottle, still champagne’s exc’lent thing carpet—­point is, is valuable uncle dead—­an’—­bury?’

Morris sprang from his seat.  ‘What’s that you say?’ he gasped.

‘I say it’s exc’lent thing carpet,’ replied Michael, rising.  ’Exc’lent thing promote healthy action of the skin.  Well, it’s all one, anyway.  Give my love to Uncle Champagne.’

‘You’re not going away?’ said Morris.

‘Awf’ly sorry, ole man.  Got to sit up sick friend,’ said the wavering Michael.

‘You shall not go till you have explained your hints,’ returned Morris fiercely.  ‘What do you mean?  What brought you here?’

‘No offence, I trust,’ said the lawyer, turning round as he opened the door; ‘only doing my duty as shemishery of Providence.’

Groping his way to the front-door, he opened it with some difficulty, and descended the steps to the hansom.  The tired driver looked up as he approached, and asked where he was to go next.

Michael observed that Morris had followed him to the steps; a brilliant inspiration came to him.  ‘Anything t’ give pain,’ he reflected. . . .  ‘Drive Shcotlan’ Yard,’ he added aloud, holding to the wheel to steady himself; ’there’s something devilish fishy, cabby, about those cousins.  Mush’ be cleared up!  Drive Shcotlan’ Yard.’

‘You don’t mean that, sir,’ said the man, with the ready sympathy of the lower orders for an intoxicated gentleman.  ’I had better take you home, sir; you can go to Scotland Yard tomorrow.’

’Is it as friend or as perfessional man you advise me not to go Shcotlan’ Yard t’night?’ enquired Michael.  ‘All righ’, never min’ Shcotlan’ Yard, drive Gaiety bar.’

‘The Gaiety bar is closed,’ said the man.

‘Then home,’ said Michael, with the same cheerfulness.

‘Where to, sir?’

‘I don’t remember, I’m sure,’ said Michael, entering the vehicle, ’drive Shcotlan’ Yard and ask.’

‘But you’ll have a card,’ said the man, through the little aperture in the top, ‘give me your card-case.’

‘What imagi—­imagination in a cabby!’ cried the lawyer, producing his card-case, and handing it to the driver.

The man read it by the light of the lamp.  ’Mr Michael Finsbury, 233 King’s Road, Chelsea.  Is that it, sir?’

‘Right you are,’ cried Michael, ‘drive there if you can see way.’

CHAPTER X. Gideon Forsyth and the Broadwood Grand