At last he appeared to take in the meaning of the doctor’s carefully chosen words.
“But then—the feller’s mad. He paid for having his own name engraved on cups and things that he’d stolen—he went and bought cups, and then had them engraved? Is that what you mean?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean.”
“Then that settles it,” said Sir Thomas simply. “He’s mad. It’s a ghastly thing but I suppose one ought to be thankful that he can’t be held responsible. God knows where he gets it from! Not the Aviolets, nor yet the Amberlys. I’ll go bail on that. The wretched feller’s mad.”
He was now as deeply convinced of Cecil’s madness as he had previously been convinced of his deliberate wickedness.
“We must get the lawyer man on to that,” he repeated, with an almost child-like pride in his own astuteness. “That’s the line for him to take, d’you see, Lucian? He must tell them the wretched boy’s mad. I—I’m even willing to undertake that he shall be placed under proper restraint. But, for God’s sake, don’t let his mother know that. You know what women are.”
The doctor could have groaned aloud.
Just before they were due to start for the solicitor’s office, Ford arrived.
His sallow face was a shade sallower than usual, his breathing very slightly hurried. He shook hands with his father, and said, “Ha, Lucian?” to the doctor with an interrogative inflexion and raised eyebrows.
“You’ve been quick,” grunted Sir Thomas. “How’s your mother?”