"Mr. McAuley," he said, "I know that you know young Mr. Brassington."
The words seemed to have a little more meaning than Jimmy liked.
"I am an intimate friend of Mr. Brassington, Senior. We think a good deal of him in Ormeston, Mr. McAuley."
Jimmy crossed his legs, leant back in his chair, sipped his wine, and put on an unconcerned, man-of-the-world visage, not unlike that of a criminal about to be hanged.
Mr. Kirby, with his head thoughtfully poised upon the fingers of his right hand, and looking steadily away from Jimmy's face, said—
"Yes, we know Mr. Brassington, and we respect him highly."
Jimmy could bear the tension no longer.
"What is it you want to say to me about Greystones," he said suddenly.
"Oh, yes, Greystones," said Mr. Kirby, "of course! But your mention of the Brassingtons made me turn my mind to that sad loss Mr. Brassington has had. I dare say his son told you. I am afraid he can't recover—but the bank admits it is a forgery."
"Forgery!" shrieked Jimmy.
It suddenly occurred to him that Booby's
