“I have no doubt. But all will be explained in due course. Did Arnold make no explanation?”
“None. Indeed, in his letter to me, which I opened after his burial, he admitted to me that he was not what he had pretended to be.”
“Few of us are, I fear,” he laughed. “We are all more or less hypocrites and humbugs. To-day, in this age of criminality and self-advertisement, the art of evading exposure is the art of industry. Alas! the copy-book proverb that honesty is the best policy seems no longer true. To be dishonest is to get rich quick; to remain honest is to face the Official Receiver in the Bankruptcy Court. A dishonest man amasses money and becomes great and honoured owing to the effort of his press agent. The honest man struggles against the trickery of the unscrupulous, and sooner or later goes to the wall.”
“What you say is, I fear, too true,” I sighed. “Would that it were untrue. Virtue has very little reward in these days of unscrupulous dealing in every walk of life, from the palace to the slum.”
“Then I take it that you do not hold in contempt a man who, in dealing with the world, has used his opponents’ own weapons?” he asked.
“How can I? In a duel the same weapons must be used.”
“Exactly, Mr Kemball, we are now beginning to understand each other, and—”
At that moment the door opened without warning, and Asta re-entered. She had changed her frock, and was wearing a pretty muslin blouse and skirt of dove-grey.
“Shall you have tea in here, Dad—or out on the lawn?” she inquired.
“Oh, on the lawn, I think, dear. I just want to finish my chat with Mr Kemball—if you don’t mind.”