“Oh, I didn’t!” said Sir Richard, taking snuff.
“B-but if you didn’t know, why d-did you constrain him—oh, what the d-devil does all this m-mean?”
“You have it wrong, my dear Beverley. I didn’t constrain him. I was, in fact, an unwitting partner in the crime. I should perhaps explain that Mr Yarde was being pursued by a Runner from Bow Street.”
“A Runner!” Mr Brandon began to look ashen. “Who set them on? G-god damn it, I—”
“I have no idea. Presumably your respected father, possibly Cedric. In Mr Yarde’s picturesque but somewhat obscure language, he—er—tipped the cole to Adam Tiler. Have I that right?”
“How the d-devil should I know?” snapped Brandon.
“You must forgive me. You seem to me to be so familiar with—er—thieves and—er—swashbucklers, that I assumed that you were conversant also with thieving cant.”
“D-don’t keep on talking about thieves!” Beverley said, stamping his foot.
“It is an ugly word, isn’t it?” agreed Sir Richard.
Beverley ground his teeth, but said in a blustering voice: “Very well! I did t-take the damned necklace! If you m-must know, I’m d-done up, ruined! But you n-needn’t take that psalm-singing t-tone with me! If I d-don’t sell it, my father will soon enough!”