“Say, seven or eight and twenty, man, and you 'll be nigher the mark. Let me see,” said he, trying to remember, “the last time I saw you was at Exeter. You were waiting for your trial about those bills of George Colborne. Don't look so frightened; there's no one to hear us here. It was as narrow an escape there as ever man had. It was after that, I suppose, you took the name of Hankes?”
“Yes,” said the other, in a faint whisper.
“Well, I must say Christianity does n't seem to have disagreed with you. You 're in capital case,—a little pluffy for work, but in rare health, and sleek as a beaver.”
“Always the same. He will have his joke,” muttered Hankes, as though addressing some third party to the colloquy.
“I can't say that I have committed any excesses in that line of late,” said Grog, dryly. “I 've had rather a tough fight with the world!”
“But you've fought it well, and successfully,” Davis said the other, with confidence. “Have n't you married your daughter to a Viscount?”
“Who told you that? Who knows it here?” cried Grog, hurriedly.
“I heard it from Fordyce's people a fortnight ago. It was I myself brought the first news of it to Davenport Dunn.”
“And what did he say?”
“Well, he didn't say much; he wondered a little how it came about; hinted that you must be an uncommon clever fellow, for it was a great stroke, if all should come right.”