“Don’t touch the scoundrel, Sir Mark,” cried Guest fiercely. “It is all true.”
“You cur!” roared the prisoner. “You turn against me? But I know the reason for that: our friend the rejected in Benchers’ Inn.”
“Come away, Sir Mark,” cried Guest. “The man is an utter knave.”
“I will not believe it,” cried Sir Mark.
“Read that letter, then,” said Guest quietly, “written on paper bearing your crest, from your own house, to his confederate Samuel Henderson, the printer of the forged Russian notes.”
Sir Mark sat silent and thoughtful in the corner of his carriage as he and Guest were driven back, till they were near the house, when he turned suddenly to his companion.
“Thank you, Guest,” he said warmly. “Nothing like a friend in need. Hang it, sir, I’d sooner take my ships into action again than meet my guests here at home. But it has to be done,” he said, “and our side beaten. I will not believe that Mr Barron is guilty, nor yet that I could have been made a fool. The man is a gentleman, and I’ll stand by him to the last in spite of all that is said against him. What do you say, sir—what do you say?”
“Do you wish me to speak, Sir Mark?”
“Of course.”
“Then I say that the man is an utter scoundrel; that you have been horribly deceived; and that—there, I am making you angry.”