“There’s a man in the City called Quodling,
a silk broker. For private reasons I should like
to know something about him.”
Greenacre gazed absently at his friend, like one who
tries to piece together old memories.
“Lost it,” he muttered at length in a
discontented tone. “Something about a Mrs.
Quodling and a lawsuit—big lawsuit that
used to be talked about when I was a boy. My
father was a lawyer, you know.”
“Was he? It’s the first time you
ever told me,” replied Gammon with a chuckle.
“Nonsense! I must have mentioned it many
a time. I’ve often noticed, Gammon, how
very defective your memory is. You should use
a mnemonic system. I made a splendid one some
years ago; it helped me immensely.”
“I could have felt sure,” said Gammon,
“that you told me once your father was a coal
merchant.”
“Why, so he was—later on. Am
I to understand, Gammon, that you accuse me of distorting
facts?”
With the end of his third tumbler there had come upon
Greenacre a tendency to maudlin dignity and sensitiveness;
he laid a hand on his friend’s arm and looked
at him with pained reproach.
“Gammon! I was never inclined to mendacity,
though I confess to mendicity I have occasionally
fallen. To you, Gammon, I could not lie; I respect
you, I admire you, in spite of the great distance
between us in education and habits of mind. If
I thought you accused me of falsehood, my dear Gammon,
it would distress me deeply. Assure me that you
don’t. I am easily put out to-day.
The death of poor Bolsover—my friend before
he succeeded to the title. And that reminds me.
But for a mere accident I might myself at this moment
have borne a title. My mother, before her marriage,
refused the offer of a man who rose to wealth and
honours, and only a year or two ago died a baronet.
Well, well, the chances of life the accidents of birth!”
He shook his head for some minutes, murmuring inarticulate
regrets.
“I think I’ll just have one more, Gammon.”
“I think not, old boy. Where did you say
you lived?”
“Oh, that’s all right. Most comfortable
lodgings in the parish of St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields.
If you have the slightest doubt of my veracity, leave
me, Gammon; I beg you will leave me. I—in
fact, I have an appointment with a gentleman I met
at poor Bolsover’s funeral.”
With no little difficulty Gammon led him away, and
by means of an omnibus landed him at length near St.
Martin’s Church. No entreaty could induce
the man to give his address. He protested that
a few minutes’ walk would bring him home, and
as he seemed to have sobered sufficiently, Gammon
left him sitting on the church steps—a strange
object in his borrowed suit of mourning and his antiquated
top hat.
THE HEAD WAITER AT CHAFFEY’S
