“There’s a man in the City called Quodling, a silk broker.  For private reasons I should like to know something about him.”

Greenacre gazed absently at his friend, like one who tries to piece together old memories.

“Lost it,” he muttered at length in a discontented tone.  “Something about a Mrs. Quodling and a lawsuit—­big lawsuit that used to be talked about when I was a boy.  My father was a lawyer, you know.”

“Was he?  It’s the first time you ever told me,” replied Gammon with a chuckle.

“Nonsense!  I must have mentioned it many a time.  I’ve often noticed, Gammon, how very defective your memory is.  You should use a mnemonic system.  I made a splendid one some years ago; it helped me immensely.”

“I could have felt sure,” said Gammon, “that you told me once your father was a coal merchant.”

“Why, so he was—­later on.  Am I to understand, Gammon, that you accuse me of distorting facts?”

With the end of his third tumbler there had come upon Greenacre a tendency to maudlin dignity and sensitiveness; he laid a hand on his friend’s arm and looked at him with pained reproach.

“Gammon!  I was never inclined to mendacity, though I confess to mendicity I have occasionally fallen.  To you, Gammon, I could not lie; I respect you, I admire you, in spite of the great distance between us in education and habits of mind.  If I thought you accused me of falsehood, my dear Gammon, it would distress me deeply.  Assure me that you don’t.  I am easily put out to-day.  The death of poor Bolsover—­my friend before he succeeded to the title.  And that reminds me.  But for a mere accident I might myself at this moment have borne a title.  My mother, before her marriage, refused the offer of a man who rose to wealth and honours, and only a year or two ago died a baronet.  Well, well, the chances of life the accidents of birth!”

He shook his head for some minutes, murmuring inarticulate regrets.

“I think I’ll just have one more, Gammon.”

“I think not, old boy.  Where did you say you lived?”

“Oh, that’s all right.  Most comfortable lodgings in the parish of St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields.  If you have the slightest doubt of my veracity, leave me, Gammon; I beg you will leave me.  I—­in fact, I have an appointment with a gentleman I met at poor Bolsover’s funeral.”

With no little difficulty Gammon led him away, and by means of an omnibus landed him at length near St. Martin’s Church.  No entreaty could induce the man to give his address.  He protested that a few minutes’ walk would bring him home, and as he seemed to have sobered sufficiently, Gammon left him sitting on the church steps—­a strange object in his borrowed suit of mourning and his antiquated top hat.

CHAPTER VI

THE HEAD WAITER AT CHAFFEY’S