“Dick Millet,” cried Morrison, “you mean well, but I can’t bear this. Either be silent or go. If I think of the scene on that dreadful night when I was sent home by a note written by that scoundrel of a brother-in-law of yours—”
“Meaning yourself?” said Dick coolly.
“I mean that double-faced, double-lived, double-dyed traitor, John Huish.”
“What!”
“The man who has fleeced me more than Malpas—curse him!—ever did.”
“Gently! I won’t sit and hear John Huish maligned like that.”
“Maligned!” cried Morrison, with a bitter laugh.
“As if anyone could say anything bad enough of the scoundrel!”
“Look here, Frank,” said Dick rather warmly, “I came here to try and do you a good turn, not to hear John Huish backbitten. He’s a good, true-hearted fellow, who has been slandered up and down, and he don’t deserve it.”
Morrison sat up, stared at him in wonder, and then burst into a scornful laugh.