“ ’Morning, Sir Clinton. I heard you were here, so I came across to say good-bye before I clear out.”
Sir Clinton could hardly pretend astonishment in view of what he knew about the state of affairs at Ravensthorpe; but he did not conceal his regret at the news.
“There was a row-royal between Maurice and me this morning,” Cecil explained, gloomily. “Of course this medallion business gave him his chance, and he jumped in with both feet, you know. He abused me like a fish-wife and finally gave me permission to do anything except stay at Ravensthorpe after to-night. So I’m off.”
“I wish you hadn’t got mixed up with that silly practical joke,” Sir Clinton said in some concern. “I can’t forgive that young blighter for luring you into it.”
Cecil’s resentment against his brother was evidently too deep to let him look on the matter from this point of view.
“If it hadn’t been that, it would have been something else. Any excuse would have served his turn, you know. He’d have flung me out sooner or later—probably sooner. I’ve felt for long enough that he was itching to clear me off the premises. Foxy’s little show only precipitated things. The root of the trouble was there long before.”
“Well, it’s a sad business.” Sir Clinton saw that it was useless to dwell on the subject. “You’re going up to town? Any address you can give me?”
“I’ll probably put up with a man for a day or two. He’s been inviting me to his place once or twice lately, but I’ve never been able to fit it in; so I may as well take him at his word now. I’ve got to look round for something to do, you know.”
“If you want some one to speak for you, Cecil, refer them to me when you apply for anything. And, by the way, if you happen to run short, you know my address. A letter will always find me.”
Cecil thanked him rather awkwardly.