“Ah, but there is,” he resumed. “For instance, there is one remark you made just now to the effect that I would gladly give double the amount to save my name, and that of my son after me. Now, that remark does emphatically need explaining.”
“You heard that?” said the adventurer shortly.
“Couldn’t help it. This room is only one storey from ground. Given an open window and still autumn air, and—”
Develin Hunt mentally ground his teeth and cursed. So it was with a purpose the Squire had asked him to open the window! As a matter of real fact, this was not the case. Oh, the old fox, with all his blandness and soft sawder! He felt vicious.
“That all you heard?” he said shortly.
“Enough, wasn’t it? Now, will you kindly tell me in what way my name needs saving; for, looking back, though I have been through hard times, I cannot—thank God—call to mind any instance of having ever disgraced it.”
The adventurer felt a wave of intense relief. This was how Wagram had read his words! Well, he would reassure him on that point; perhaps he might even yet save the situation.
“No! no! no!” he said emphatically. “Great Scott! Mr Wagram, but you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick there. Why, your name stands on a pedestal all around here, and, if you will allow me to say so, it thoroughly deserves to. Now, be advised by me. Leave this affair alone. It is between myself and your father, and reflects discredit upon nobody named Wagram—take my word for that.”
You see, he was plausible, almost persuasive, this rough-and-tumble West African adventurer. But Wagram shook his head.
“Not satisfactory,” he said. “I still demand to know in what way my name needs ‘saving’—and that of my son after me, you added.”