"I understand that it is urgent, Mr.—Mr. Oswyn. Otherwise, you know, I am a busy man."
"You mean that my call is inconvenient? I can quite imagine it. I should hardly have troubled you if you had not once taken the trouble to send for me—you, perhaps, have forgotten the occurrence; that seemed to give me a sort of right, a claim on your attention."
"I recognised it," said Charles gravely, in a tone which implied that, had he not given this nicety the benefit of his liberal consideration, the intruder would never have penetrated so far. "Since that is agreed, may I ask you to explain your business as expeditiously as possible?"
Oswyn smiled with some irony; and Sylvester suppressed a little shudder, reflecting that the man's uncouthness almost transgressed the bounds of decency.
"I can quote your own words on a previous occasion: it concerns the honour of a friend—the honour of your family, if you like it better."
Sylvester shut his volume sharply, glanced up at the other with suppressed irritation.
"That is not a matter I can discuss with you," he said at last.
"I simply intend you to read," went on Oswyn calmly, "a letter which your brother-in-law wrote to my friend, Philip Rainham, a few weeks before his death."
Charles rose from his chair quickly, avoiding the other's face.
"I regret that I can't assist you," he said haughtily; "I have no interest whatever in the affairs of the late Mr. Rainham, and I must decline to read your letter."