That he talked more loudly than was at this club generally liked is true. But, then, he always talked loud enough to be heard in every part of the largest room. The things of which he spoke; the stories he told; the language in which he clothed these stories, astonished the other members who were present--astonished and delighted them beyond measure, because such a loud and confident guest had never before been known in the place, and because it had been the fortune of Campaigne, Leonard Campaigne--the blameless, the austere, the cold--who had brought this elderly Bounder, this empty hogshead or barrel to be filled with strong drink, this trumpet-voiced utterer of discreditable stories. Next day there were anecdotes told in the club by those who had been present, and scoffers laughed, and those who had not been present envied those who had. “Leonard,” said this delightful guest, late in the evening, and in a louder voice than ever, “I suppose someone has told you about the row--you know--when I had to leave the country. There had been plenty of rows before; but I mean the big row. You were only three or four years old at the time. I suppose you can’t remember.” The other men lifted their heads. They were like Mrs. Cluppins. Listening they scorned, but the words were forced upon them. “No one told me--that is to say, I heard something the other day. No details--something alleged as the cause.” “Would you like to know the real truth?” “No! Good heavens, no! Let bygone scandals rest,” he replied, in a murmur as low as extreme indignation would allow. “Let the thing die--die and be forgotten.” “My dear nephew”--he laid a great hand on Leonard’s knee--“I dare say they told you the truth. Only, you see”--he said this horrid thing loud enough to gratify the curiosity of all present--“the real truth is that the fellow who put the name at the bottom of you know what, and did the rest of it, was not me, but the other fellow--Chris. That’s all. Chris the respectable it was--not me.” “I tell you I want to know nothing about it.” “I don’t care. You must. After all these years, do you think now that I am home again, with my pile made, that I’m going to labour under such an imputation any longer? No, sir. I’ve come to hold up my head like you. Chris may hang his if he likes. I won’t. (Boy, another whisky and soda.) In those days Chris and I hunted in couples. Very good sport we had, too. Then we got through the money, and there was tightness. Chris did it. Run him in if you like. For, you see----”