“An old Arab sheikh who wore immaculate robes, and carried a dagger with a handle of silver filigree and a very sharp point, with which he prodded his slaves when they failed in their duties. Are you satisfied now?”
“No, not in the least; but I didn’t expect to be. Who’s old Fane?”
“My dear fellow,” said Farquhar, mildly, “your mind reminds me of a flea. Mr. Fane is a farmer hereabouts, a kind of local squire.”
“Is he well off?”
“Tolerably, I believe. Why do you ask?”
“Old curmudgeon!” said Lucian. “Stingy old miserly murderer!”
“One at a time, I beg,” said Farquhar.
“Well, he may be an angel incognito, but his war-paint’s unco guid, that’s all.”
“How has he roused your righteous wrath?”
Lucian related Mrs. Searle’s story, waxing eloquent over her wrongs, and illustrating his points with rapid foreign gestures, as his manner was. Farquhar compressed his lips, which already joined in a sufficiently firm line. “I know those houses,” he said; “they are unfit for habitation. I tried to get them condemned a year ago. Want a copper, do they? They’ll never get it from Fane.”