“In my profession,” Peter Ruff answered, “I have come across such persons.”
“I have come to see you about one,” Sir Richard proceeded. “Many years ago, there was a fellow in my regiment who went to the bad—never mind his name. He passes to-day as Ted Jones—that name will do as well as another. I am not,” Sir Richard continued, “a good-natured man, but some devilish impulse prompted me to help that fellow. I gave him money three or four times. Somehow, I don’t think it’s a very good thing to give a man money. He doesn’t value it—it comes too easily. He spends it and wants more.”
“There’s a good deal of truth in what you say, Sir Richard,” Peter Ruff admitted.
“Our friend, for instance, wanted more,” Sir Richard continued. “He came to me for it almost as a matter of course. I refused. He came again; I lost my temper and punched his head. Then his little game began.”
Peter Ruff nodded.
“He had something to work upon, I suppose?” he remarked.
“Most certainly he had,” Sir Richard admitted. “If ever I achieved sufficient distinction in any branch of life to make it necessary that my biography should be written, I promise you that you would find it in many places a little highly colored. In other words, Mr. Ruff, I have not always adhered to the paths of righteousness.”
A faint smile flickered across Peter Ruff’s face.
“Sir Richard,” he said, “your candor is admirable.”
“There was one time,” Sir Richard continued, “when I was really on my last legs. It was just before I came into the baronetcy. I had borrowed every penny I could borrow. I was even hard put to it for a meal. I went to Paris, and I called myself by another man’s name. I got introduced to a somewhat exclusive club there. My assumed name was a good one—it was the name, in fact, of a relative whom I somewhat resembled. I was accepted without question. I played cards, and I lost somewhere about eighteen thousand francs.”