“And I have been thinking of what you said about business.  There is one thing I must do, and then I can remain quiet for a fortnight, unless I should be called upon to disturb my rest by dying.”

“We will hope not.”

“That may go as it pleases,” said the sick man.  “I want you now to write a letter for me to Mr. Grey.”  Mr. Merton had undertaken to perform the duties of secretary as well as doctor, and had thought in this way to obtain some authority over his patient for the patient’s own good; but he had found already that no authority had come to him.  He now sat down at the table close to the bedside, and prepared to write in accordance with Mr. Scarborough’s dictation.  “I think that Grey,—­the lawyer, you know,—­is a good man.”

“The world, as far as I hear it, says that he is honest.”

“I don’t care a straw what the world says.  The world says that I am dishonest, but I am not.”  Merton could only shrug his shoulders.  “I don’t say that because I want you to change your opinion.  I don’t care what you think.  But I tell you a fact.  I doubt whether Grey is so absolutely honest as I am, but, as things go, he is a good man.”

“Certainly.”

“But the world, I suppose, says that my son Augustus is honest?”

“Well, yes; I should suppose so.”

“If you have looked into him and have seen the contrary, I respect your intelligence.”

“I did not mean anything particular.”

“I dare say not, and if so, I mean nothing particular as to your intelligence.  He, at any rate, is a scoundrel.  Mountjoy—­you know Mountjoy?”

“Never saw him in my life.”

“I don’t think he is a scoundrel,—­not all round.  He has gambled when he has not had money to pay.  That is bad.  And he has promised when he wanted money, and broken his word as soon as he had got it, which is bad also.  And he has thought himself to be a fine fellow because he has been intimate with lords and dukes, which is very bad.  He has never cared whether he paid his tailor.  I do not mean that he has merely got into debt, which a young man such as he cannot help; but he has not cared whether his breeches were his or another man’s.  That too is bad.  Though he has been passionately fond of women, it has only been for himself, not for the women, which is very bad.  There is an immense deal to be altered before he can go to heaven.”

“I hope the change may come before it is too late,” said Merton.

“These changes don’t come very suddenly, you know.  But there is some chance for Mountjoy.  I don’t think that there is any for Augustus.”  Here he paused, but Merton did not feel disposed to make any remark.  “You don’t happen to know a young man of the name of Annesley,—­Harry Annesley?”

“I have heard his name from your son.”

“From Augustus?  Then you didn’t hear any good of him, I’m sure.  You have heard all the row about poor Mountjoy’s disappearance?”