“Surely,” said he. “I ask nothing less.”
“Then,” said Mr. Quayle, stuttering a little, “you are prepared to accept our friend’s trust, for all it’s worth?”
Uncle Jenico nodded again, though I thought his countenance fell a trifle over the emphatic qualification. However, he recovered in an instant, and rubbed his hands together gleefully.
“Capital, sir,” he said; “a little capital. That’s all Richard and I need to make our fortunes.”
He spoke as if we had been long partners, but hampered by insufficient means.
“Ah!” said Mr. Quayle, decisively; “but that’s just the point.”
“Just the point,” echoed Uncle Jenico, still nodding, but weakly, and with a dew of perspiration on his forehead.
“Just the point,” repeated Mr. Quayle. “I stood close to our friend. I know something of his affairs—and habits. He was—d’ye understand French, Mr. Paxton?”
“Yes, certainly,” answered my uncle, proudly.
“Well, listen to this, then: ‘Il a été un joueur invétéré celui là; c’est possible qu’il a mangé son blé en herbe.’”