The few mourners returned with us to the hotel, where, in a private room, we had cake and sherry wine. Afterwards Mr. Quayle, when all but he were gone, asked the favour of a final word with Uncle Jenico. He appeared to find it a word difficult of utterance, walking up and down, and puffing, and getting a little red in the face, while Uncle Jenico sat beaming in a chair, his legs crossed and finger-tips bridged. At length Mr. Quayle stopped before him. “Mr. Paxton,” said he, “when time’s short formalities are best eschewed, eh?” Uncle Jenico nodded. “Surely,” said he. “I ask nothing less.” “Then,” said Mr. Quayle, stuttering a little, “you are prepared to accept our friend’s trust, _for all it’s worth_?” Uncle Jenico nodded again, though I thought his countenance fell a trifle over the emphatic qualification. However, he recovered in an instant, and rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Capital, sir,” he said; “a little capital. That’s all Richard and I need to make our fortunes.” He spoke as if we had been long partners, but hampered by insufficient means. “Ah!” said Mr. Quayle, decisively; “but that’s just the point.” “Just the point,” echoed Uncle Jenico, still nodding, but weakly, and with a dew of perspiration on his forehead. “Just the point,” repeated Mr. Quayle. “I stood close to our friend. I know something of his affairs--and habits. He was--d’ye understand French, Mr. Paxton?” “Yes, certainly,” answered my uncle, proudly. “Well, listen to this, then: ‘Il a été un joueur invétéré celui là; c’est possible qu’il a mangé son blé en herbe.’” He drew back, to let his words take effect. “God bless me!” said Uncle Jenico, weakly. “You have reason to know?” “My dear sir,” replied Mr. Quayle, “I know how some of us occupy our time on circuit when we’d be better abed. I know a punter when I see one. I may be right; I may be wrong; and for your sake I hope I’m wrong. But the point is this: A good deal of our friend’s paper has come my way; and I want to know if, supposing I take it to market with bad results to the estate, you are going to swear off your trust?” Then Uncle Jenico did an heroic thing; how heroic I could not realise at the time, though even then I think a shadow of the truth was penetrating my bewilderment. He got to his feet, looking like an angel. “Mr. Quayle,” he said, “you’ve spoken plainly, and I don’t conceal your words are a disappointment. But if they are also a prophecy, rest assured, sir, that Richard and I stand or fall together. We are the surviving partners of an honourable firm, and there is that in there, sir” (he pointed to his inseparable despatch-box), “to uphold our credit with the world.” Mr. Quayle seized his hand, with an immense expression of relief on his face. “You’re a good soul,” he said. “Without that assurance I should have felt like robbing the orphan. I hope it may turn out better than we suppose.” “I hope so, too,” said Uncle Jenico, rather disconsolately.