“Very possibly. For what?”
“I—the fact is, I owed it to a fellow.”
“Ha! How did you come to owe it?”
His lordship shuffled.
“You have been gambling,” boomed Sir Thomas. “Am I right?”
“No, no! I say, no, no. It wasn’t gambling—it was a game of skill. We were playing piquet.”
“Kindly refrain from quibbling. You lost this money at cards, then, as I supposed. Just so.”
He widened the space between his feet. He intensified his glare. He might have been posing to an illustrator of The Pilgrim’s Progress for a picture of “Apollyon straddling right across the way”.
“So,” he said, “you deliberately concealed from me the contents of that letter, in order that you might extract money from me under false pretences? Don’t speak!” (his lordship had gurgled). “You did! Your behaviour was that of a—of a——”
There was a very fair selection of evil-doers in all branches of business from which to choose. He gave the preference to the race-track.