The man twiddled his hat round and round between his hands, as if he sought inspiration from its brim. I sat and watched him. He was a poor kind of scamp. He was so easily nonplussed.
"My name, madam? Yes." He struck himself with the palm of his hand upon his chest, affably, as it were. "My name is Trevannion--Stewart Trevannion."
"Have you ever heard of Mr. Reginald Townsend?"
Mr. Trevannion went all of a heap. He looked at me like a startled rabbit. He turned, as if to obey an impulse which suggested that he should make a rush from the room. But he thought better of it. Instead, he put his hand up to his chin, appearing, all at once, to be plunged into a sea of contemplation.
"Townsend? Townsend? No! I don't seem to remember the name." He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. He saw that it would not do. "Stay. I had a client of the name of Townsend--he was a merchant in the West Indies--but his name was John."
"You won't get that fifty pounds."
Again he drew himself up, with an attempt at that air of dignity which he seemed so anxious to assume.
"I haven't the honour, madam, of being acquainted with your name--excuse me, you must permit me to conclude--but I have to assure you that you appear to altogether misunderstand my character."
After all, Mr. Trevannion was amusing. I laughed at him.
"I should be sorry to do that. In proof of it, if you could manage to tell the truth, just once in a way, should it not be too great a strain upon your constitution, I shall be happy to add twenty guineas of my own to Mr. Haines's fifty."