“Look here, Kemball, you and I are going to be friends as our fathers were. I want to speak very frankly with you.”
“Well?” I asked, a trifle surprised at his sudden change of manner.
“I want to ask you a plain honest question. What is your opinion of Harvey Shaw?”
“My opinion,” I echoed. “Well, I hardly know. He’s rather a good fellow, I think, as far as I know. Generous, happy—”
“Oh yes, keeps a good cellar, is hospitable, very loyal to his friends, and all that,” he interrupted. “But—but what I want you to tell me is, what you really think of him. Is his rather austere exterior only a mask?”
“I don’t quite follow your meaning,” was my reply.
“May I speak to you in entire confidence?”
“You certainly may. I shall not abuse it.”
“Well, for some time I have wanted to discuss Shaw with somebody who knows him, but I have had no opportunity. Because he gives money freely in the district, supports everything, and never questions a tradesman’s bill, he is naturally highly popular. Nobody will say a word against him. Harvey Shaw can do no wrong. But it is the same everywhere in a rural district. Money alone buys popularity and a good name.”
“Why should any word be said against him?”