“Leonard,” said this delightful guest, late in the evening, and in a louder voice than ever, “I suppose someone has told you about the row—you know—when I had to leave the country. There had been plenty of rows before; but I mean the big row. You were only three or four years old at the time. I suppose you can’t remember.”
The other men lifted their heads. They were like Mrs. Cluppins. Listening they scorned, but the words were forced upon them.
“No one told me—that is to say, I heard something the other day. No details—something alleged as the cause.”
“Would you like to know the real truth?”
“No! Good heavens, no! Let bygone scandals rest,” he replied, in a murmur as low as extreme indignation would allow. “Let the thing die—die and be forgotten.”
“My dear nephew”—he laid a great hand on Leonard’s knee—“I dare say they told you the truth. Only, you see”—he said this horrid thing loud enough to gratify the curiosity of all present—“the real truth is that the fellow who put the name at the bottom of you know what, and did the rest of it, was not me, but the other fellow—Chris. That’s all. Chris the respectable it was—not me.”
“I tell you I want to know nothing about it.”
“I don’t care. You must. After all these years, do you think now that I am home again, with my pile made, that I’m going to labour under such an imputation any longer? No, sir. I’ve come to hold up my head like you. Chris may hang his if he likes. I won’t. (Boy, another whisky and soda.) In those days Chris and I hunted in couples. Very good sport we had, too. Then we got through the money, and there was tightness. Chris did it. Run him in if you like. For, you see——”
“Enough said—enough said.” Leonard looked round the room. There were only three or four men present: they sat singly, each with a magazine in his hand: they preserved the attitude of those who read critically, but there was a je-ne-sais-quoi about them which suggested that they had heard the words of this delightful guest. Indeed, he spoke loud enough for all to hear. It is not every day that one can hear in a respectable club revelations about putting somebody’s name on the front and on the back of a document vaguely described as “you know what.”
“Enough said,” Leonard repeated impatiently.