"I have just been telling Rolls," he said, "that the best policy in such a case is just downright honest truth. To get into a panic and keep back anything is the greatest mistake. There is no need for any panic. You will be in the hands of those that take a great interest in you, Mr John—begging your pardon for using that name."
"You do not seem satisfied with what I have told you," John said.
"Oh, me! it's little consequence what I think; there's plenty to be thought upon before me. I would make no bones about it. In most things the real truth is the best, but most especially when you're under an accusation. I'm for no half measures, if you will let me say so."
"I will let you say whatever you please—so long as you understand what I am saying. I have told you everything. Do I look like a man in a panic?" said John.
"Panic has many meanings. I make no doubt you are a brave man, and ready to face fire and sword if there was any need. But this is different. If you please, we'll not fail to understand each other for want of plain speaking. Mr Erskine, I make no doubt that's all as true as gospel; but there's more to come. That's just a part of the story, not the whole."
"I don't mean to be offended by anything you say," said John, cheerfully. "I feel that it means kindness. There is nothing more to come. It is not a part, but the whole. It is the truth, and everything I know."
Mr Monypenny did not look up; he was drumming his foot softly against the table, and hanging his head with a despondent air as he listened. He did not stop the one nor raise the other, but went on working his under lip, which projected slightly. There is no such tacit evidence of dissatisfaction or unbelief. Some little sign invariably breaks the stillness of attention when the teller of a tale comes to its end, if his story has been believed. There is, if no words, some stir, however slight—movement of one kind or another, if only the change of an attitude. But Mr Monypenny did not pay this usual tribute when John's voice stopped. It was a stronger protest than if he had said, "I don't believe you," in ordinary words.
"I understand," said John, after a pause of a full minute, which seemed to him an hour. He laughed with something between despair and defiance. "Your mode of communication is very unmistakable, Mr Monypenny. It is Scotch, I suppose. One has always heard of Scotch caution and cannyness." If he had not been very bitter and sore at heart he would not have snatched at this aimless weapon of offence.
"Mr Erskine," said the agent, "a sneer is always easy. Gibes break no bones, but neither have they any healing in them. You may say what you like to me, but an argument like that will do you terrible little good with them that will have to judge at the end. I am giving no opinion myself. On my own account I will speak frankly. I would rather not have heard this story—unless I was to hear——"
"What?" cried John, in the heat of personal offence.