"Well, he's a man I've had a slight acquaintance with for a year or two. He lodges—or he did lodge—in Richmond. I scraped acquaintance with him because his face interested me. But it isn't more interesting than the man himself, who is the one genius I know—the one walking anachronism——"
"I know all about that," interrupted Harry. "Why did you pretend you knew nothing about him? That's what I want to get at. You don't deny you led me to think you had never heard of him?"
"No—I did my best to do so."
"You admit it now! And why did you do your best? What was the meaning of it? What had you to gain?"
"Nothing."
"Then why did you do it?"
"My good fellow, that's my business."
"Mine too," said Harry thickly. "This man knows something of my father; you know something of this man; and first you pretend you don't—and then you try to prepare him for meeting me. I suppose you admit it was Scrafton you came to see that morning?"
"Well, I confess I wanted to put salt on the fellow; and, as he'd left Richmond, that was my only way."
"Exactly!" cried Harry. "You wanted to put salt on him because there was some mystery between the two of you and my father, and you were frightened he'd let something out. By God, Lowndes, there's some treachery too, if there isn't crime! Sit still. I'm not going to stop. Ring your bell if you like, and I'll tell every man in the office—I'll tell every big-wig on the board. There's treachery somewhere—there may be crime—and I've suspected it from the beginning. Yes, I suspected you the first time I set eyes upon you. I suspected you when we talked about my poor father in his own room and in the train. You looked a guilty man then—you look a guilty man now. Confess your guilt, or, by the living Lord, I'll tell every director of this Company! Ah, you may laugh—that's your dodge when you're in a corner—you've told me so often enough—but you were white a minute ago!"