“Thank you for your approbation, Mr. Bartley,” said Mowle, servilely.
“According to this,” said Bradstone, touching the paper with his forefinger, “the person named—we will mention no names, Mowle, just, take the initial V.—according to this information V. is liable for something like forty thousand pounds. That’s so?”
“That is so,” assented Mowle, blinking, and rubbing his chin. “Rather more than less, Mr. Bartley. Nearer fifty. Of course it’s a secret.”
“How do you account for it?” asked Bartley Bradstone, thoughtfully, and watching his companion covertly and closely.
Mr. Mowle stretched his lips into the undertaker-like smile, and coughed.
“Seems singular and improbable, doesn’t it, sir? Here’s a gentleman, a tip-top swell, as we may say, one of the old county families, looked up to and respected as a sound man, and yet——” He rubbed his chin, and smiled again. “This is the key to the riddle, Mr. Bartley: Wild oats!”
Bartley Bradstone sank into a chair and nodded.
“Wild oats, sir! Mr. V. began it early, and kept it up as long as he could. Went to the Jews—and the Christians. I don’t know which is worse,” and he coughed again. Bartley Bradstone’s eyes dropped with a faint shadow of consciousness.
“Borrowed right and left on post obits and I O U’s and reversions, and on anything or nothing. Quite the old story, Mr. Bartley. Sixty per cent. interest, any interest they liked to put on, so that he had some money to play ducks and drakes with.”
“That was before he came into the property,” said Bartley. “Why didn’t he pay it off then?”