“Men are funny animals,” was Rosie’s comment.
Matheson, with his thoughts revolving round his discovery and the Aplin girls’ revelations, went to Macfarlane for information. Macfarlane, having spent ten years in Cape Town, was fairly well qualified to give it. The most interesting events in the histories of many of the inhabitants were known to him, and the Upton affair was barely five years old.
He had forgotten the details of the case, he said. So far as he could remember it was just a sordid tale of common embezzlement. The man was weak—one of those people with a moral kink. There was no apparent reason why he should appropriate the firm’s money; he had a decent salary, and a decent wife who certainly never led him into extravagance. When he came out of prison he went under altogether, and the home was broken up. He had no idea what had become of the family. There was only one girl, and the boys were old enough now to be doing for themselves.
“I can tell you where Miss Upton is,” Matheson said, “because I happened to know her.”
He explained how and where he had met her that morning. Macfarlane was interested.
“It’s a come down,” he said, “and a beastly shame. That’s the worst of it when these sort of things happen, the family goes under with the man.”
“I don’t fancy there is much fear of Miss Upton going under,” Matheson returned, and became so earnest and eager in his championship as to provoke Macfarlane’s curiosity.
“She is so plucky and clever... one of the bravest and honestest little souls!”
“Well,” observed Macfarlane drily, “I haven’t seen her since she was an ugly little flapper with a predilection for snubbing people, and a partiality for animals. You’ll lose the chance of a marriage of convenience, my boy, if you let Rosie see you trotting her about.”
Matheson laughed.