It was, as Mr. Augustus Longcord explained to his partner Isidore, the colossal foolishness of the stranger that was the cause of all the trouble. “Give me a man, who can take care of himself—or thinks he can,” declared Augustus Longcord, “and I am prepared to give a good account of myself. But when a helpless baby refuses even to look at what you call your figures, tells you that your mere word is sufficient for him, and hands you over his cheque-book to fill up for yourself—well, it isn’t playing the game.”
“Auguthuth,” was the curt comment of his partner, “you’re a fool.”
“All right, my boy, you try,” suggested Augustus.
“Jutht what I mean to do,” asserted his partner.
“Well,” demanded Augustus one evening later, meeting Isidore ascending the stairs after a long talk with the stranger in the dining-room with the door shut.
“Oh, don’t arth me,” retorted Isidore, “thilly ath, thath what he ith.”
“What did he say?”
“What did he thay! talked about the Jewth: what a grand rathe they were—how people mithjudged them: all that thort of rot.
“Thaid thome of the motht honorable men he had ever met had been Jewth. Thought I wath one of ‘em!”
“Well, did you get anything out of him?”