Mark Ruthine shook his head with a little laugh. “I always thought, Agar, that you were a bit of a fool!”
“I have sometimes suspected it myself,” admitted the soldier meekly.
“Why, man,” said Ruthine, “Seymour Michael is one of the biggest rascals on God's earth. I would not trust him with fourpence round the corner.”
“Nor would I,” put in the Captain, “and the sum is not excessive.”
Jem Agar was sipping his whisky and soda with the placidity of a giant who fears no open fight and never thinks of foul play.
“I don't see,” he muttered, “what harm he can do me.”
“No more do I, at the moment,” replied the Doctor; “but the man is a liar and an unscrupulous cad. I have kept an eye on him for years because he interests me. He has never run a straight course since he came into the field; he has consistently sacrificed truth, honour, and his best friend to his own ambition ever since the beginning.”
Jem Agar smiled at the Doctor's vehemence, although he was aware that such a display was far from being characteristic of the man.
“Of course,” he admitted, “in the matter of honour and glory I expect to be swindled. But I don't care. I know the chap's reputation, and all that, but he can hardly get rid of the fact that I have done the thing and he has not.”
“I was not thinking so much of that,” replied the other. “Men sell their souls for honour and glory and never get paid.”