“Bring him in, the poor soused herring,” said Tab, and Mr. Wellington Brown swaggered and staggered into the sitting-room. He was abominably intoxicated.
“Wish of you young gen’lemen is Rex Lander?”
“That is my name,” said the puzzled Rex.
“I’m Wellin’ton Brown of Chei-Feu. A pensioner at the mercy of a dam’ ol’ scound’l! A pension’r! He pays me a pittance out of what he robbed me. I can tell you some’n about ol’ Trasmere.”
“Trasmere, my uncle?” asked the startled young man.
The other nodded gravely and sleepily.
“I can tell you some’n about him. I was his bookkeeper ’n sec’tary. I know! I’ll tell you some’n about him!”
“You can save your breath,” said Rex coldly. “Why have you come here?”
“Because you’re ’is nephew. Thas why! He robbed me—robbed me!” he sobbed. “Took bread out ’f the mouth of innocent child—that what! Took bread out ’f orphan’s mouth and robbed me, swin’led me out ’f my share Mancurian Trading Syn’cate, an’ then gave me remittance ’n said ‘Drink yourself to death’—thas what he said!”
“And did you?” asked Tab sardonically.