Lord Denningham might lack morals, but brains he had in plenty.
Without scruples the latter gift is dangerous.
So Michael felt the uneasiness growing in him as he helped his father up the stairs of the lodging they had taken.
"Lesh drink an' b' jolly, an' drownsh melancholy,"
warbled Sir Stephen, rousing himself. "Ha, ha, Mike, boy, drownsh it, drownsh it."
Michael did not reply. He was thinking.
Sir Stephen sank back in an easy-chair, his handsome face flushed, his satin suit crumpled and stained with wine splashes, his wig awry. And over him stood his son, stern and commanding.
"Where is Morice Conyers?" he asked gravely and very slowly, whilst grey eyes dominated wavering blue ones.
Sir Stephen began chuckling.
"Morry! Wantsh to know where Morry is? Why, you knowsh better'n I. He's with Moosoo. Ha, ha! a pretty joke, split me if it ain't. We'll make them laugh at Almack's over it. Ha, ha! good old Morry. Fancy him turningsh politics! Red capsh, Marshellaise, too funny."