“Next morning, there was the picture, still reversed.”
“Did he stay long?” Eastman asked interestedly.
“Half an hour, by the clock.”
“Did he talk?”
“Well, he rambled.”
“What about?”
Cavenaugh rubbed his pale eyebrows before answering.
“About things that an old man ought to want to forget. His conversation is highly objectionable. Of course he knows me like a book; everything I’ve ever done or thought. But when he recalls them, he throws a bad light on them, somehow. Things that weren’t much off color, look rotten. He doesn’t leave one a shred of self-respect, he really doesn’t. That’s the amount of it.” The young man whipped out his handkerchief and wiped his face.
“You mean he really talks about things that none of your friends know?”
“Oh, dear, yes! Recalls things that happened in school. Anything disagreeable. Funny thing, he always turns Brian’s picture to the wall.”