were close together,' that's the
year before your father's death--eight hundred and ninety-two pounds.
And year afore that--one thousand two hundred and seven pounds. And year
afore that--bless us! Have I turned o'er two pages at once?' And so he
continued.

Twemlow's heart began to beat heavily as Meshach's eyes met his. He
seemed to see his father as a pathetic cheated simpleton, and to hear
the innumerable children of his sister crying for food; he remembered
that in the old Bursley days he had always distrusted John Stanway, that
conceited fussy imposing young man of twenty-two whom his father had
taken into partnership and utterly believed in. He forgot that he had
hated his father, and his mind was obsessed by a sentimental and pure
passion for justice.

'Say! Mr. Myatt,' he exclaimed with sudden gruffness, 'do you suggest
that John Stanway didn't do my father right?'

'My lad, I'm doing no suggesting.... You can keep the book if you've a
mind to. I've said nothing to no one, and if I had not met you in
Liverpool, and you hadn't told me that your sister was poorly off again,
happen I should ha' been mum to my grave. But that's how things turn
out.'

'He's your own nephew, you know,' said Twemlow.

'Ay!' said the old man, 'I know that. What by that? Fair's fair.'

Meshach's tone, frigidly jocular, almost frightened the American.

'According to you,' said he, determined to put the thing into words,
'your nephew robbed my father each year of sums varying from one to
three hundred pounds--that's what it comes to.'

'Nay, not according to me--according to that book, and what your father
told your sister Alice,' Meshach corrected.

'But why should he do it? That's what I want to know.'

'Look here,' said Meshach quietly, resuming his chair. 'John's as good a
man of business as you'd meet in a day's march. But never sin' he
handled money could he keep off stocks and shares. He speculates, always
has, always will. And now you know it--and 'tisn't everybody as does,
either.'

'Then you think----'

'Nay, my lad, I don't,' said Meshach curtly.

'But what ought I to do?'

Meshach cackled in laughter. 'Ask your sister Alice,' he replied, 'it's
her as is interested, not you. You aren't in the will.'

'But I don't want to ruin John Stanway,' Twemlow protested.

'Ruin John!' Meshach exclaimed, cackling again. 'Not you! We mun have no
scandals in th' family. But you can go and see him, quiet-like, I
reckon. D