"No," he retorted, "I can't."
I didn't believe him.
"Look here," I said; "I'm going home next week. Will you give me a brief?"
"What, to vindicate my reputation? Yes, if you don't care about your own. They won't believe you."
"I'll risk that," said I; for I had a notion that my cousin Nellie, at all events, might, perhaps, be convinced.
As soon as possible after my arrival in England, I went and told my tale to Mrs. Conyers. I met her at a crush in Hans Place, and engaged her to sit out three consecutive dances with me. To give me these she had, so she said, to disappoint two very nice boys indeed; but I insisted. My tale would take three dances at least in the telling, and, moreover, it concerned Ian Farquhar; so, with a pout—Nellie's pouts were a part of her ordnance, and, of course, suited her—she consented.
As it happened, we sat out not three dances, but five; for after I had said my say, she also had something to tell—and of the two hers was the better tale, for it made Farquhar into a hero.
I knew that Nellie's brother had been a lieutenant in Farquhar's regiment, but I did not know that the responsibility for the foul running in the Viceroy's Cup was conclusively proved to lie between Captain Farquhar and Lieutenant Vincent. Vincent denied it stoutly; Farquhar, engaged to Vincent's sister, said nothing. So Farquhar became the Cintra ticket-nipper, and Vincent remained with his regiment until the native moneylenders made India too hot to hold him. Then he resigned, and, socially speaking, went under.