“My remarks on the Middle Ages don’t seem to amuse you. Let us get back to Count Stylptitch. From France to England via Africa seems a bit thick even for a diplomatic personage. If he merely wanted to ensure that you should get a thousand pounds he could have left it you in his will. Thank God neither you nor I are too proud to accept a legacy! Stylptitch must have been balmy.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”
Anthony frowned and continued his pacing.
“Have you read the thing at all?” he asked suddenly.
“Read what?”
“The manuscript.”
“Good Lord, no. What do you think I want to read a thing of that kind for?”
Anthony smiled.
“I just wondered, that’s all. You know a lot of trouble has been caused by Memoirs. Indiscreet revelations, that sort of thing. People who have been closed as an oyster all their lives seem positively to relish causing trouble when they themselves shall be comfortably dead. It gives them a kind of malicious glee. Jimmy, what sort of a man was Count Stylptitch? You met him and talked to him, and you’re a pretty good judge of raw human nature. Could you imagine him being a vindictive old devil?”
Jimmy shook his head.