“All? What more d’ye want, sir? And what d’ye mean by grinning at me like that, sir? I won’t stand impudence.”
“And yet you have to stand Keeling’s? He is indispensable, isn’t he?”
Another volley of strong language, which Ferrers understood to convey the information that Mr Crayne would feel deeply indebted to any one who would enable him to bundle Major Keeling out of the province for good and all. When the flow of vituperation ceased for a moment, he spoke—
“I have been anxious to ask your advice for some time, sir. Circumstances have come to my knowledge about Major Keeling——”
“That would break him—smash him—if they came out?” gasped Mr Crayne, becoming purple in the face. “Go on, boy; go on.”
Ferrers began his tale, at first interrupted continually by what he considered impertinent questions as to his relations with the Mirza, his grounds for accepting evidence from him against Major Keeling, and so on; but by degrees the interruptions ceased, and he was allowed to finish what he had to say in peace. Then Mr Crayne chuckled.
“I knew the man was a hot-headed fool, but I never thought he was a double-dyed ass!” he cried triumphantly. “He’s set a trap for himself, and walked into it. He might have written insubordinate letters till he died, and not given me such a handle against him as this. What are you looking horrified about, sir, eh?”
Ferrers disavowed the charge stoutly, though his uncle’s glee had set his teeth on edge. “I don’t quite see——” he began.
“Eh? What? Don’t see it? Don’t see that the fellow has personated this Sheikh-ul-Jabal for ten years, and made away with the allowance he was supposed to pay over to him? Used it to support his precious black-and-tan family, of course. No, there’s no law against a man’s marrying a black woman, or a dozen, if he wants ’em, and he’s at liberty to become a heathen, for all I know, if he doesn’t force his notions down other people’s throats; but embezzlement—that’s a different thing.”
“Oh, but—by Jove! this is disgusting,” said Ferrers. “I really don’t think——”