There was something curious in his tone, which Lisle noticed.
“From the beginning,” Nasmyth went on, “George behaved very generously to Clarence.”
“It was Clarence that I meant to ask about more particularly.”
Nasmyth looked thoughtful, and when he answered, it struck Lisle that he was making an effort to give an unbiased opinion.
“Clarence,” he said, “is more likable when you first meet him than George used to be; a handsome man who knows how to say the right thing. Makes friends readily, but somehow he never keeps the best of them. He’s one of the people who seem able to get whatever they want without having to struggle for it and who rarely land in any difficulty.”
Again a grudging note became apparent, as though the speaker were trying to subdue faint suspicion or disapproval, and Lisle changed the subject.
“Had George Gladwyne any immediate relatives?”
“One sister, as like him as it’s possible for a woman to be. He wasn’t greatly given to society; I don’t think he’d ever have married. His death was a crushing blow to the girl—they were wonderfully attached to each other—but I’ve never seen a finer display of courage than hers when Clarence cabled the news.”
He broke off, as if he felt that he had been talking with too much freedom, and just then the report of a rifle came ringing across the water.
“That’s a duck’s head shot off. Jake doesn’t miss,” he said.