"Nothing, absolutely nothing. Twenty-three years ago he sent home the son to Miss Drake--our esteemed client--and arranged with our San Francisco agents to pay a monthly sum of twenty pounds for the child's keep. The child is now the unfortunate young man in question, but the money is still paid. I know nothing more."
"Would you mind making inquiries of your agents?"
Saon shook his stupid head. "I don't think it would do, Mr. Jarman; no, I really don't think it would do. So long as the money arrives, we have no right to pry into private business."
"But to save Frank Lancaster?"
"Not even for that. We have our own high position to think of." Jarman could have thrown a book at the head of this dignified ass, who would have let a man die to preserve what he called his position. But it was no use getting angry, lest the man should refuse to say more, therefore Jarman swallowed his temper and continued his questions.
"Do you think the father is still alive?"
Saon did not reply for a moment. Then he looked up. "I said just now that I did not know," he said in a more reasonable tone; "but the fact is I do. Do you think that such information would really be of service to the son?"
"I am sure of it."
"Then I can tell you that Mr. Lancaster, senior, is dead."
"Dead! And when did he die?"