“In coming up to-day, I heard a few words in the train,” went on Tod. “Two fellows were talking, and they brought up a man’s name in a disparaging manner. It is a friend of yours, Bill; and Johnny and I had a precious discussion, I can tell you, as to whether we should repeat it to you or not.”
“Was it my name?” asked Bill. “What could they have to say against me?”
“No, no; they’d have got an answer from me had it been yours. First of all, we thought of mentioning it to Sir John; but I did not like to, and that’s the truth. So we just concluded to put it before you, as one of ourselves, and you can tell him if you like.”
“All right,” said Bill. “Go ahead.”
Tod told him all from beginning to end. Not that it was very much to tell: but he brought in our own conversation; the delicacy we felt in speaking at all, and the arguments for and against. Bill was not in the least put out; rather wondered, I thought, that we should be.
“It can’t be Dick Foliott, you know,” said he. “There’s not anything against him; impossible that there should be.”
“I am glad you say so,” cried Tod, relieved. “It was only for Helen’s sake we gave a thought to it.”
“The name was the same, you see—Foliott,” I put in. “And that man is going to be married as well as this one.”
“True,” answered Bill, slowly. “Still I feel sure it is quite impossible that it can be Foliott. If—if you think I had better mention it, I will. I’ll mention it to himself.”
“I should,” said I eagerly, for somehow my doubts of the man were growing larger. “Better be on the safe side. You don’t know much about him, after all, Bill.”