‘It is all very well to be modest, but I venture to think differently.’
‘I should like to ask you one question, Mr Coningham,’ I said.
‘As many as you please.’
‘How is it that you have so long delayed giving me the information which on my uncle’s death you no doubt felt at liberty to communicate?’
‘I did not know how far you might partake of your uncle’s disposition, and judged that the wider your knowledge of the world, and the juster your estimate of the value of money and position, the more willing you would be to listen to the proposals I had to make.’
‘Do you remember,’ I asked, after a canter, led off by my companion, ‘one very stormy night on which you suddenly appeared at the Moat, and had a long talk with my uncle on the subject?’
‘Perfectly,’ he answered. ‘But how did you come to know? He did not tell you of my visit!’
‘Certainly not. But, listening in my night-gown on the stair, which is open to the kitchen, I heard enough of your talk to learn the object of your visit—namely, to carry off my skin to make bagpipes with.’
He laughed so heartily that I told him the whole story of the pendulum.
‘On that occasion,’ he said, ‘I made the offer to your uncle, on condition of his sanctioning the commencement of legal proceedings, to pledge myself to meet every expense of those, and of your education as well, and to claim nothing whatever in return, except in case of success.’