together with the circumstances of the case, convinced me at the time that he was an innocent man.”
“He isn’t one now,” remarked Major Honeybone.
“I—I am not a pauper, sir,” proceeded Daintree with embarrassment. “I don’t want this to go any further; but you see, I knew something about the boy; and, in short, I found the money for his defence!”
“The dickens you did!” exclaimed the major. “Then you were a friend of his?”
“I am his friend, sir, though he has never seen me.”
“It was a noble thing to do—’pon my soul it was,” observed the major, very much impressed. “Quite quixotic, upon my soul!”
This open admiration hit Daintree in his weakest spot; he leant forward and quoted the irresistible figures in a sudden blaze of self-satisfaction.
“Lor’!” said the major. “You don’t say so. Gadzooks!”
“When I do a thing at all,” remarked Daintree with perfect truth, “I do it with all my heart. Either that or I leave it alone. So I need hardly tell you I didn’t stop short at Serjeant Culliford. No, sir, I went to Lord John Russell himself; it would be an affectation were I to conceal my impression that his lordship’s final decision was not uninfluenced by what I said.”
Major Honeybone was too used to lies not to know the truth when he chanced to hear it. He filled up both glasses and sucked thoughtfully at his cigar. Daintree watched him with an eager eye.
“So he owes his life to you?” said the major at last. “Well, sir, then it is my duty to tell you that he owes you the greatest conceivable grudge!”
Daintree sighed.
