“They 're not suspicions, sir,” was the dry response.
“Fears,—hesitations,—whatever you like to call them.”
“Are we on honor here, Mr. Massingbred?” said Scanlan, after a pause.
“For myself, I say decidedly so,” was the firm reply.
“That will do, sir. I ask only one pledge, and I 'm sure you 'll not refuse it: if you should think, on reflection, that what I propose to you this evening is neither practicable nor advisable,—that, in fact, you could neither concur in it nor aid it,—that you'll never, so long as you live, divulge it to any one,—man, woman, or child. Have I that promise?”
“I think I may safely say that.”
“Ay, but do you say it?”
“I do; here is my promise.”
“That will do. I don't ask a word more. Now, Mr. Massingbred,” said he, replacing the book on the table, “I 'll tell you in the fewest words I can how the case stands,—and brevity is essential, for we have not an hour to lose. Merl is gone to London about this business, and we 'll have to follow him. He 'd be very glad to be rid of the affair to-morrow, and he 'll not waste many days till he is so. Read that bit there, sir,” said he, pointing to a few closely written lines in the note-book.
“Good heavens!” cried Jack, “this is downright impossible. This is a vile falsehood, devised for some infernal scheme of roguery. Who 'd believe such a trumpery piece of imposition? Ah, Scanlan, you are not the wily fellow I took you for. This same precious note-book was dropped as a decoy, as I once knew a certain noble lord to have left his betting-book behind him. An artful device, that can only succeed once, however. And you really believed all this?”