"And when he left school?"
"As far as I remember he went first into some office in a country town, where he remained for a year; then Sir Benjamin took him in hand, and got him a situation in a large banking institution in London."
"And after that?"
"Commenced his downfall; he fell in with a low set, became a frequenter of second-rate race-courses, an admirer of ballet-girls and objectionable barmaids; finally, is said to have forged his benefactor's name, and to have come within an ace of standing in a felon's dock."
"A nice character truly! And Sir Benjamin honoured the signature?"
"For the sake of the lad's mother. And then it was, I suppose, that he gave him the £500 referred to in that letter, and shipped him out of England."
"And, as far as you know, he was never heard of again, until his letter and the £200,000 arrived?"
"Not to my knowledge; in fact, until you recalled it, I had almost forgotten his existence."
"Very well then. Now you'll just come for a walk with me, and, as we go, I'll tell you something of Marmaduke Plowden's—otherwise Marcos Veneda's—wonderful career, from the day he left England till I made his acquaintance, under such peculiar circumstances, six months ago. Then you shall take pens, paper, and ink, and write the first half of it. I'll do the last, and together we'll make it into a book for the information of the world. Here's a case full of first-class cigars; it's a perfect day for a tramp; so get your things and come along."
Resistance being useless, I collected hat and stick and went, and the result of that walk is the story—strange enough, goodness knows—which I now place before you.