“Yes. One night after I came ’ome from work. He made me let him look through all the things I had. I told him that I’d heard that the parchment I sold him was worth a lot o’ money, and he asked who told me. I explained that a gentleman from London had been asking about it after he had bought it, and he laughed, saying: ‘I know the man; ’e’s a fool, ’e is.’ ”
“Meaning me, eh?”
“I suppose so, sir, of course, beggin’ your pardon.”
“Well, Mr. Knutton, I don’t think I’m much of a fool,” I laughed. “That man swindled you, that’s all.”
“Then do you really think, sir, that the parchment had something to do with our property?” he asked in surprise.
“Possibly it may have,” was my response. “Of course I’ve never seen it, so can’t say.”
“Well, sir,” the old labourer burst forth, “I don’t like that man at all. ’E ain’t no gentleman, that I’m sure.”
He had, I supposed, failed to “stand” the necessary quantity of beer which, in Knutton’s eyes, stamped the gentleman.
“Why not?” I inquired.
“Because he made a lot of unkind remarks about you, sir,” was his answer. “He told me that you were trying to swindle me out of the money we ought to have, and a long yarn showing you up to be one of the worst o’ blackguards.”