“Yes,” growled on his host; “I’m father of that club, and I don’t like to see it degraded. If he’d gone for you, and kicked you into the street, I shouldn’t have lifted a finger to stop him. He could have made hay of you if I’d chosen, a sickly youngster like you.”
“I wonder he did not,” said Roger; “but, Mr Fastnet, now I have met you, I want to ask you a question.”
“Ask away.”
“My name, as you know, is Roger Ingleton. Have you never met any one of my name before?”
“Bless me, no. Why should I?”
“I had a namesake once who came to London, and I wondered if you possibly knew him.”
“My dear sir, I don’t know quite all the young men who have come to London during the last twenty years. What makes you think it?”
“My namesake was a brother—son of my father’s first wife. He left home and disappeared. Rumour says he went to London, where he was last heard of in company of a companion named Fastnet.”
Mr Fastnet put down his glass.
“Eh?” said he. “The Fastnets are not a big clan. Are you sure that was the name?”