'He's your own nephew, you know,' said Twemlow.
'Ay!' said the old man, 'I know that. What by that? Fair's fair.'
Meshach's tone, frigidly jocular, almost frightened the American.
'According to you,' said he, determined to put the thing into words, 'your nephew robbed my father each year of sums varying from one to three hundred pounds—that's what it comes to.'
'Nay, not according to me—according to that book, and what your father told your sister Alice,' Meshach corrected.
'But why should he do it? That's what I want to know.'
'Look here,' said Meshach quietly, resuming his chair. 'John's as good a man of business as you'd meet in a day's march. But never sin' he handled money could he keep off stocks and shares. He speculates, always has, always will. And now you know it—and 'tisn't everybody as does, either.'
'Then you think——'
'Nay, my lad, I don't,' said Meshach curtly.
'But what ought I to do?'