"I am looking at the question from a purely selfish point of view. Much as I admire the British Public, I have no wish that they should acquire an intimate knowledge of my private relations with the late Mr. Prado. I would rather you left that part of the story out when you are confiding in Gordon."
I nodded. "Of course I shall," I said; "but Prado is sure to have left some record of the business behind him, and if his cousin comes into everything—well, you know from my story what sort of a gentleman Master Maurice Furnivall is."
Lord Lammersfield shrugged his shoulders. "One attains a certain measure of philosophy in politics," he said. "At the worst, it will give me an additional breathing space; and I deserve to be worried if only for my stupidity in misreading our defunct friend the filibuster in the way I did. I made certain the fellow was after a title."
"I don't think we shall hear much more of 'The Amalgamated Goldfields of South America,'" I said, with a short laugh.
Lord Lammersfield got up from his chair. "A pity!" he said regretfully. "It was a good title, and I hate waste."
CHAPTER XXI
Mr. George Gordon arrived at about half-past three. He was shown into my room by the Inspector, who announced his name almost as respectfully as that of the Home Secretary.
A tall, immaculately dressed young man, with a long chin, a tired white face, and sleek black hair carefully parted in the middle, he appeared more like a product of Ranelagh and the Gaiety than the most successful barrister-politician of the day.
As the warder withdrew we shook hands, Mr. Gordon looking at me from under his heavily-lidded eyes with a kind of fatigued curiosity.