"There's no name to it," said Mudd. "Mr. Robert, this has to be kept close in the family and away from the office; you've got to help with him."
"I'll do my best," said Bobby unenthusiastically, "but, hang it, Mudd, I've got my living to make now. I've no time to hang about bars and places, and if to-night's a sample——"
"We've got to get him away to the country or somewhere," said Mudd, "else it means ruin to the business and Lord knows what all. It's got to be done, Mr. Robert, and you've got to help, being the only relative."
"Couldn't that doctor man take care of him?"
"Not he," said Mudd; "he's given me instructions. The master is just to be let alone in reason; any thwarting or checking might send him clean off. He's got to be led, not driven."
Bobby whistled softly and between his teeth. He couldn't desert Uncle Simon. He never remembered that Uncle Simon had deserted him for just such conduct, or even less, for Bobby, stupid as he was, had rarely descended to the position he had found Uncle Simon in a little while ago.
Bobby was young, generous, forgetful and easy to forgive, so the fact that the Relative had deserted him and cut him off with a shilling never occurred to his open soul at this critical moment.
Uncle Simon had to be looked after. He felt the truth of Mudd's words about the office. If this thing were known it would knock the business to pieces. Bobby was no fool, and he knew something of Simon's responsibilities; he administered estates, he had charge of trust-money, he was the most respected solicitor in London. Heavens! if this were known, what a rabbit-run for frightened clients Old Serjeants' Inn would become within twenty-four hours!
Then, again, Bobby was a Ravenshaw. The Ravenshaws were much above the Pettigrews. The Ravenshaws were a proud race, and the old Admiral, his father, who lost all his money in Patagonian Bonds, was the proudest of the lot, and he had handed his pride to his son.
Yes, leaving even the office aside, Uncle Simon must be looked after.