“That will do. Yes, just such a man as that was at the Arms one night—six—eight—upon my word I believe it must have been ten years ago. A man who put on a good deal of side, though his clothes were no end seedy—ragged edges to his trousers, don’t you know—and though his hand shook like an aspen leaf. I played a fifty game with him, and I should say, though I beat him easy, that he had once been a fine player. He was in wretched form, poor creature, but——”
“Ten years ago, do you really think it was as long ago you saw him?”
“I know it was. It would be in seventy-four, that was the year Potter was returned for Screwmouth. I remember we were all talking of the election the night that fellow was there. Yes, I remember him perfectly; a tall, fair man, a wreck, but with the traces of former good looks. I fancy he must have been a soldier. He slept at the Arms that night, and I met him rather early next morning, before nine o’clock, coming away from the Chase—met him within ten yards of the West Lodge.”
“Did he talk about Lord Cheriton?”
“A good deal—talked rather wild, too—and would have blackguarded your cousin if we hadn’t shut him up pretty sharply. He pretended to have been intimate with him before he made his way at the Bar, and he talked in the venomous way a man who has been a failure very often does talk about a man who has been a success. It’s only human nature, I suppose. There’s a spice of venom in human nature.”
“Have you never seen this man at Cheriton since that occasion—never within the last ten years?”
“Never, and I should be inclined, looking at the gentleman from a professional point of view, to believe that he must have been under the turf for a considerable portion of that period. I don’t think there could have been three years’ life in the man I played billiards with that evening. Hard lines for him, poor beggar, if there was property coming to him. He looked as if he wanted it bad enough.”
“What had he been doing at the Chase, do you suppose?”
“I haven’t the least idea. I was driving in my cart when I passed him. I looked back and watched him for two or three minutes. He was walking very slowly, and with a languid air, like a man who was not used to walking. Ten years—no, Theodore—I don’t think it’s possible such a shaky subject as that could have lasted ten years. One certainly does see very miserable creatures crawling on for years after they have been ticketed for the undertaker—but this man—no—I don’t think he could hold out long after that October morning. I fancy he was booked for a quick passage.”
“He may have pulled himself together, and turned over a new leaf.”