"And that your silence makes it rather hard for your friends?"
"I have no friends, Lansdale."
"Oh, yes, you have; or you would have if you would take the trouble to set yourself aright."
"What if I cannot set myself aright?"
"I should be sorry to believe that,—more than sorry to be driven to admit the alternative."
"What is the alternative?"
Lansdale hesitated, as one who has his point at his adversary's breast and is loath to drive it in. "I don't quite like to put it in words, Jeffard; the English is a bit harsh. But you will understand that it is the smiting of a friend. So long as you refuse to say you didn't, the supposition is that you have robbed a man to whom you were under rather heavy obligations."
"Is that Bartrow's supposition?"
"He says it isn't, but I'm afraid the wish is the father to the thought: in his case as in—as in that of others." Lansdale added the inclusive in the hope that the wound would be the better for probing.
Jeffard's laugh was altogether bitter. "'Give a dog a bad name,'" he quoted. "Do you know, I fancied Dick would be obstinate enough to stand out against the apparent fact?"