“Will ye purtend to deny—”
“Did I scheme and plot with Cyrus the Gaunt and young Stacey?”
MacLachan mumbled something about undue influence.
“Did I get arrested?”
MacLachan grunted.
“In a cellar?”
MacLachan snorted.
“With my nose painted green?”
MacLachan groaned. “There was others,” he pleaded.
“A man of your age and influence in Our Square,” I interrupted sternly, “should have been dissuading them.”