“It was certainly the name that reached me.”
“Must refer to some one else then. I never knew or heard of any one of the name of Ingleton in my life.”
Roger’s countenance fell. The new scent appeared likely to be a false one after all.
“How long ago is all this?” asked his host.
“More than twenty years. My brother left home in a pique, and, I’m afraid, went to the bad in—”
“Twenty years?” said Mr Fastnet, putting down his cigar beside the glass. “What sort of fellow was he? A harum-scarum young dog, with impudent eyes, and a toss of his head that would have defied the bench of bishops?”
“That is he,” said Roger excitedly.
“Sit down!” continued Fastnet—“curly hair, arms like a young Hercules, as obstinate as a bulldog, with a temper like a tiger?”
“Yes, yes! that must be the same.”
“Left his mother and father in a furious tantrum, with a vow to cut off his head before he showed face at home again? A regular young demon, as honest as the Bank of England—no taste for vice in any shape or form, but plunged into it just to spite his friends, civil enough when you got him on the weather side, and no fool? Was that the fellow?”