There had been something so depressing in the fate of the lost machine that I strenuously advised that the trial should be made where the present one now stood, but Hallett was averse to it.
“No, Antony,” he said quietly; “I am neither vindictive nor spiteful, and doubtless that man feels that he has good cause for hating me. Men of his stamp always blame others for their own failings. I am, I say, neither vindictive nor spiteful, but, feeling as I do, that he was the cause of our last breakdown, I am determined that the scene of our last failure shall also be the scene of our triumph.”
This silenced opposition, and the workpeople were soon at work, taking down and re-setting up Hallett’s masterpiece at the old place.
For my part, I was regularly worn out. I had worked very hard, and felt as if I was so deeply interested in the success that I must make it this time a foregone conclusion. Hallett’s health worried me a great, deal too, and in addition to this, I was in more trouble than I can very well express about my affair with Mr Blakeford.
My objections to the proceedings had come too late. As Tom Girtley said, it was quite within our province to withdraw, and leave him in possession of his ill-gotten gains, but the attack upon his character as a solicitor was one which he was bound to disprove—in other words, he could not afford to let it drop.
“And what is he doing?” I asked.
“Riding the high horse,” said Tom. “Tony, my boy, I think you are wrong.”
“If Linny’s father were alive, and he had injured you, Tom, would you seize the first opportunity to ruin him?”
“Am I to answer that question as solicitor to client, or between friends?”
“As you like, only let’s have the truth.”