“Now,” said the tutor, “my ward feels a little curiosity about his elder brother—only natural, is it not?—and I, as his legal guardian, naturally share that curiosity.”
“Why, certainly,” said the Mayor, beginning to be interested.
Mr Ratman began to lose countenance, and fidgeted uncomfortably with the forks and spoons.
“I have heard a little of this gentleman’s romantic career,” continued the tutor, with his half-drawl. “He has been good enough to tell us, in fact, that when he left home—by the way, when was that, Ratman?”
“When I know your right to ask me questions,” growled Ratman, “I’ll see about answering them.”
“Seems to me,” said the Mayor, assuming judicial functions for the time being, “unless you’ve disgraced yourself, you can’t hurt much by saying. You say you’re the Squire’s son; this gentleman—I didn’t catch your name, sir?—Armstrong?—Mr Armstrong says he’s not as sure as you are. Seems to me, if you tell one thing, you may as well tell another. It’s all one story, and if it’s true, it’s a good one.”
Mr Ratman did not like the turn affairs were taking. If he refused to reply to the questions put to him, he was aware that he was damaging his own claim. If he answered, how was he to know if the risk was not even greater? And yet, what more was Armstrong likely to know about the lost son than he himself? He might as well go through with it. So he replied, sullenly—
“I left home a year before my mother died. He can get the date of that from the tombstone, if he wants it.”
“Thanks; I’ll look at it,” said the tutor with aggravating cheerfulness. “You went up to London, didn’t you?”
“I’ve told you so, and that I lived there with a man called Fastnet.”