“Yes.”
Mr. Ridsdale laughed deprecatingly.
“That’s all very well; but, really, Sir John, you can’t put back the clock quite so far as that. This is 1912, not 1812, you know.”
“I don’t care whether it is or it isn’t.”
Though he did not raise his voice, the General spoke with so much intensity that Ridsdale started.
“That may be; but—ah—Sir John, you won’t easily get—ah—other people to share your opinions.”
“I’ll get him to share them, and that’ll be enough for me. Ridsdale, you’re not a woman—you needn’t take your cue from Lady Jane and urge moderation. At least you can guess at what I’m feeling.”
“Yes; but I think without cause—quite without cause.”
“This century or the last, it must be the same code when things dearer than life are at stake. That’s how I feel. So you may guess if I’ll follow the mode of 1912, and seek aid from a private detective office, or ask for reparation in a court of law.”
“No, I’d never suggest that you should. What I beg you—what your best friend of either sex would beg you—is not to do anything rash, not to excite yourself needlessly.”