“A pretty big fool whoever he is!”
“Mr. Basset of Blore. I have it on good authority.”
Stubbs stared. He was silent for a time, thinking hard. “Somebody’s fooled you,” he said at last, but in a different tone. “He’s never shown a sign of coming out.”
The clerk looked wise. “It’s true,” he said. “It cost me four goes of brown brandy at the Portcullis.”
“Well, you may score that to me,” Stubbs answered. “Basset, eh? Well, he’s throwing his money into the gutter if it’s true, and he hasn’t much to spare. I see Hatton’s point. He’s not the fool.”
“No. He’s an old bird is Hatton.”
“But I don’t see where Squire Basset comes in.”
Farthingale looked wiser than ever. “Well,” he said, “he may have a score to pay, too. And if he has, there’s more ways than one of paying it!”
“What score?”
“Ah, I’m not saying that. Mr. John Audley’s may be—against his lordship.”