"Oh! well"—said Titmouse, his face flushing all over—"but that's all past and gone."
"You must rely on my honor—and I'll tell you why. What would be easier than for me to pretend to you that the papers which you might see me burn, were really the originals—and yet be no such thing?"
"In course—yes; I see!" replied Titmouse—who, however, had really not comprehended the case which Gammon had put to him. "Well—but—I say—excuse me, Mr. Gammon"—said Titmouse, hesitatingly returning, as Gammon imagined, to the charge—"but—you said something about the real heir."
"Certainly. There is such a person, I assure you!"
"Well—but since you and I, you know, have made it up, and are friends for life—eh? What's to be done with the fellow? (betwixt ourselves!)"
"That is at present no concern—nay, it never will be any concern of yours or mine. Surely it is enough for you, that you are enjoying the rank and fortune belonging to some one else? Good gracious! I can't help reminding you—fancy the natural son of a cobbler—figuring away as the Right Honorable Lord Drelincourt—while all the while, the real Lord Drelincourt is—nay, at this moment, pining, poor soul! in poverty and obscurity."
"Well—I dare say he's used to it, so it can't hurt him much! But I've been thinking, Mr. Gammon, couldn't we get him—pressed? or enlisted into the army?—He's a deuced deal better out of the way, you know, for both of us!"
"Sir!" interrupted Gammon, speaking very seriously, and even with a melancholy and apprehensive air—"leave the future to me. I have made all requisite arrangements, and am myself implicated already to a fearful extent on your behalf. The only person on earth, besides myself, who can disturb my arrangements, is yourself."
Here a gentle tapping was heard at the door.