"Oil and colourmen?"
"Yes, to be sure. Quodling? Now I come to think of it—why do you ask?"
"There's a man in the City called Quodling, a silk broker. For private reasons I should like to know something about him."
Greenacre gazed absently at his friend, like one who tries to piece together old memories.
"Lost it," he muttered at length in a discontented tone. "Something about a Mrs. Quodling and a lawsuit—big lawsuit that used to be talked about when I was a boy. My father was a lawyer, you know."
"Was he? It's the first time you ever told me," replied Gammon with a chuckle.
"Nonsense! I must have mentioned it many a time. I've often noticed, Gammon, how very defective your memory is. You should use a mnemonic system. I made a splendid one some years ago; it helped me immensely."
"I could have felt sure," said Gammon, "that you told me once your father was a coal merchant."
"Why, so he was—later on. Am I to understand, Gammon, that you accuse me of distorting facts?"
With the end of his third tumbler there had come upon Greenacre a tendency to maudlin dignity and sensitiveness; he laid a hand on his friend's arm and looked at him with pained reproach.