truth," said the other with slow deliberation, his eyes fixed upon the man seated opposite him.
"Why recall unpleasant facts?" asked Poland, with a faint attempt to smile. "I never do."
"A brief memory is always an advantage," remarked Arnold Du Cane, with a sinister grin.
"Ah! I quite follow you," Poland said, with a hardness of the mouth. "But I tell you, Arnold, I refuse to lend any hand in this crooked bit of business you've just put before me. Let's talk of something else."
"Crooked business, indeed! Fancy you, Phil Poland, denouncing it as crooked!" he laughed. "And I'm a crook, I suppose," and he thoughtfully caressed his small moustache, which bore traces of having been artificially darkened.
"I didn't say so."
"But you implied it. Bah! You'll be teaching the Sunday School of this delightful English village of yours before long, I expect. No doubt the villagers believe the gentleman at the Elms to be a model of every virtue, especially when he wears a frock-coat and trots around with the plate in church on Sundays!" he sneered. "My hat! Fancy you, Phil, turning honest in your old age!"
"I admit that I'm trying to be honest, Arnold—for the girl's sake."
"And, by Jove! if the good people here, in Middleton, knew the truth, eh—the truth that you"
"Hush! Somebody may overhear!" cried the
