“Of course,” said he.

“And you wanted to have your mind clear on the point before interviewing Phyllis.”

“You’re quite right, sir,” he replied, a bit shamefacedly.  “But if he hasn’t been spreading it, how do you know?  And,” he looked at me sharply, “what do you know?”

“You gave your word of honour not to repeat what Gedge told you.  I think you may be absolved of your promise.  Gedge came to Sir Anthony and myself with a lying story about the death of Althea Fenimore.”

“Yes,” said he.  “That was it.”

“Sit down for another minute or two,” said I, “and let us compare notes.”

He obeyed.  We compared notes.  I found that in most essentials the two stories were identical, although Gedge had been maudlin drunk when he admitted Randall into his confidence.

“But in pitching you his yarn,” cried Randall, “he left out the blackmail.  He bragged in his beastly way that Colonel Boyce was worth a thousand a year to him.  All he had to live upon now that the blood-suckers had ruined his business.  Then he began to weep and slobber—­he was a disgusting sight—­and he said he would give it all up and beg with his daughter in the streets as soon as he had an opportunity of unmasking ‘that shocking wicked fellow.’”

“What did you say then?” I asked.

“I told him if ever I heard of him spreading such infernal lies abroad, I’d wring his neck.”

“Very good, my boy,” said I.  “That’s practically what Sir Anthony told him.”

“Sir Anthony doesn’t believe there’s any truth in it?”

“Sir Anthony,” said I, boldly, “knows there’s not a particle of truth in it.  The man’s malignancy has taken the form of a fixed idea.  He’s crack-brained.  Between us we put the fear of God into him, and I don’t think he’ll give any more trouble.”

Randall got to his feet again.  “I’m very much relieved to hear you say so.  I must confess I’ve been horribly uneasy about the whole thing.”  He drew a deep breath.  “Thank goodness I can go to Phyllis, as you say, with a clear mind.  The last time I saw her I was half crazy.”

He held out his hand, a dirty, knubbly, ragged-nailed hand—­the hand that was once so irritatingly manicured.

“Good-bye, Major.  You won’t shut the door on me now, will you?”

I wrung his hand hard and bade him not be silly, and, looking up at him, said: 

“What was the other thing quite different you were intending to do before you, let us say, quarreled with Phyllis?”

He hesitated, his forehead knit in a little web of perplexity.

“Whatever it was,” I continued, “let us have it.  I’m your oldest friend, a sort of father.  Be frank with me and you won’t regret it.  The splendid work you’ve done has wiped out everything.”