“Nonsense, man! But listen to me. You don’t blame me for giving up?”
“I don’t know, Dick—I don’t know,” said Pratt. “I’ve lain in bed ruminating again and again; and one time I say it’s noble and manly, and the next time I call you a fool.”
Richard laughed.
“You see, old fellow, I’m a lawyer. I’ve been educating myself with cases, and the consequence is that I think cases. Here, then, I say, is a man in possession of a great estate; somebody tells him what may be a cock-and-bull tale—like a melodrama at the Vic, or a story in penny numbers—about a mysterious changeling and the rest of it, and he throws up at once.”
“Yes,” said Richard.
“Speaking still as a man fed upon cases I say, then, give me proofs—papers, documents, something I can tie up with red tape, make abstracts of, or set a solicitor to prepare a brief from. I’m afraid you’ve done wrong, Dick, I am indeed.”
“No, you are not, Franky,” said Richard, quietly. “Now speak as a man who has not been getting up cases—speak as the lad who was always ready to share his tips at school. No, no, Franky; the more I think of it, the more I feel convinced that I have behaved—as I cannot be a gentleman—like a man of honour.”
“Gentleman—cannot be a gentleman!” said Pratt, puffing out his cheeks, and threatening his friend with one finger, as if he were in the witness-box. “What do you mean, sir? Now, be careful. Do you call Vanleigh a gentleman?”
“Oh yes,” said Richard, smiling.
“Then I don’t,” said Pratt, sharply. “I saw the fellow yesterday, and he cut me dead.”