“Yeth, indeed yeth,” said the aged Duke, putting the paper forward as though over a counter; and Sir Charles Repton could not forbear to read it. It certainly was worse; it simply said point blank that the Burmah Oil Concession was the price of Repton’s promotion to the Upper House. And the passage ended with these words:
“We have no desire to add to a domestic affliction which no friend of the Government regrets more sincerely than we do ourselves, and we are willing to believe that the unfortunate gentleman, who we fear can never again take his old place in public life, was himself quite innocent of any such dealing; but ambitions other than his own may have been concerned in this matter, and the giving of permanent legislative power to a man who now notoriously can no longer take part in active public life, does but add to the scandal.”
That decided him! He would nip off that headache legend at once, and sharply!
“Yes,” he said, “I’ll move as soon as you like, and the sooner the better.” He did not say it as though he was granting a favour; and it was easy to see that the Duke was a little afraid of him:—
After a pause during which the two men rose to part, the old gentleman suggested that Methlinghamhurst should speak after him.
“Messlingham who?” said Repton, puzzled. The name was unfamiliar to him.
“No, not Methlinghamhurtht! Methlinghamhurtht,” said the Duke of Battersea, rather too loud. “Methlinghamhurtht!”
Sir Charles shook his head, still puzzled. “I daresay he’s all right,” he said all starch.
“You know,” said the Duke of Battersea, craning forward in a confidential way, “Clutterbuck that wath.”
“Oh! Clutterbuck! Yes, I remember. Well? Can he speak?”