To her great disappointment, as she felt just in the humour, as she termed it, “for a row,” Barclay stopped below in Mellersh’s room, where Richard Linnell was seated with the Colonel.
“Business with me, Mr Barclay?” said Linnell, flushing. “Yes, I’ll come out with you. No, I have no secrets from Colonel Mellersh.”
Barclay looked sharply at the Colonel, and the latter glanced at his nails and smiled.
“Dick,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “Mr Barclay is asking himself whether Gamaliel is a scoundrel, and Paul is a young fool to trust him.”
“No, I wasn’t, Colonel,” said Barclay warmly. “You’re a little too much for me, sir, and though you shy the New Testament at me like that (and I never read it), perhaps, money-lender as I am, I’m as honest a man, and as true a friend as you.”
“No doubt about it, my dear Barclay,” said Mellersh with a sneer.
“I wasn’t thinking about Gamaliel, or Paul either, sir; but, since you will have it I was asking myself whether you—a clever card-player—”
“Say sharper, Barclay.”
“By gad, I will, sir,” cried Barclay, banging his fist upon the table—“a clever sharper—were making believe to be this young gentleman’s friend for your own ends.”
“Mr Barclay!” cried Richard indignantly.