"You don't believe me, John," said Ronnie injured.
"Of course I cannot believe you. I am not a child. You had some girl with you, some 'pick up', innocent or guilty, God knows. I will assume her innocence. The sophisticated have no appeal for you. There was a girl named East—a chorus girl, if I remember rightly—"
"If you're going to talk about that disgraceful attempt to blackmail me, I'm finished," said Ronnie resigned.
"Why didn't you charge her and her brother with blackmail? They came to me—"
"Good lord, did they? I'll break that infernal blackguard's neck!"
"When will you meet him?" Ronnie did not answer.
"They came to me and I knew that the story was true. The brother, of course, is a blackmailer. He is levying blackmail now and you are paying him—don't argue, Ronnie, of course you are paying him. You said just now that you would break his neck, which meant to me that you see him frequently—when he comes to draw his blood money. If it were a case of blackmail, why did you not prosecute? The mere threat of the prosecution would have been sufficient to have sent him to ground—it struck me that the girl was acting under the coercion of her brother, and I do not think you would have had any trouble from her. Ronnie, you are rotten." He said this as he stopped at the corner of Park Lane and Piccadilly, and Ronnie smiled nervously.
"Oh come now, John, that is rather a strong expression."
"Rotten," repeated the lawyer. He screwed a monocle in his eye and surveyed his companion dispassionately. "Chorus girls—shop girls—the mechanics of joy who serve Madame Ritti—that made you jump, eh? I know quite a lot about you. They are your life. And God gave you splendid gifts and the love of the sweetest, dearest girl in this land."
"Who is this?" asked the young man slowly.