At ten o’clock next morning, he found himself in Pacific Avenue, asking his way. At five minutes past ten, he was coming up the steps of a residence with Purbeckian marble pillars to the door-way.
He rang and Farintosh opened. Farintosh did not know if Mr. du Cane were in; he would see. He returned in a minute and ushered Candon into a library where Bud, in his shirt sleeves, was re-arranging some books. Bud had a pipe in his mouth.
Farintosh shut the door and the two men were left alone.
“Sit down,” said Bud. There was no warmth in his tone. He seemed a different man from the Bud of the Wear Jack, older, more serious. Old Harley du Cane with his rose in his coat and his air of a flaneur, could sometimes crystallize into awful and icy seriousness, the man of pleasure suddenly becoming the man of affairs, cold, logical with something of the touch of the judge.
“I’ve come to say I haven’t treated you people well,” said Candon. “I’ll never see you again, so I wanted just to say that. I couldn’t sit down under it any longer. Couldn’t sleep to-night without saying what I wanted to say. I shouldn’t have given up that letter.”
“You shouldn’t,” said Bud. He was standing with his back to the fireplace now, with his pipe in his mouth. “I’m not wanting to rub it in, but you’ve crumpled Tommie up. Steady on, and let me talk. I’m the man you ought to have a grouch against, for when the Wear Jack went off, I was the first to say you’d taken your hook. I had to kick Hank to make him believe. Hank’s a good sort, much better than me, much better than you, much better than any of us. He believed in you, so did Tommie. Well, now, see here, B. C., I’m not going to apologise to you for being mistaken and for writing you down worse than you were, for the facts were all dead against you, and it was no pleasure to me to think you’d hooked it. It cut me bad. Let’s forget it and come to the point. I guess the Almighty sent you here to-night for me to deal with and I’m going to deal with you straight. One moment.”
He left the room, and Candon heard him calling for Farintosh and giving some directions, then he returned, took his place on the hearth rug and went on.
“Yes, I guess he did. What are your plans?”
“Foc’sle.”