‘Wait a bit, sir,’ cried John Jervase. ‘Now just wait one minute and I’ll put the case before you. Here are the facts. I should be obliged if you would take a seat, sir, and allow me to do the same.’ He moved a chair towards the table with great deliberation, sat down leisurely, reached out for the decanter, filled his glass, emptied it and set it down--all with a certain look of weighty purpose. ‘I’m going to make a clean breast of it, sir. I should leave James to do it if he was capable of doing anything but whimper like a kicked charity boy. It’s a bit to my discredit to speak the plain truth, because I’ve got to admit that I have certainly made an effort to deceive you. That isn’t creditable, and it goes again the grain to admit it. I said I didn’t know this fellow Lightfoot. That was a lie. I know him well. I told the lie to shelter James.’ James lifted a beslobbered face, stared at the speaker for a single instant, and then allowed his head to fall upon his hands again. ‘I did it to shelter James,’ Jervase repeated, and as he spoke he dealt his cousin a sharp kick beneath the table, as if to bespeak that worthy gentleman’s particular attention. ‘James, to tell the truth about him, since it must be told, has always had two sides to him. He was a solid chapel-goer till he was thirty, and he was a deacon or an elder, or something of that sort; but he always had some little game on on the sly, and he always succeeded in keeping his Piccadillies pretty quiet. When he began to make money, he went over to the Church and took the plate round at collecting time, and got to be a sidesman, and a trustee, and I don’t know what all. He never married, but he’s never been without a quiet little home of his own, with a lady at the head of the table--have ye, James?’ James groaned, but made no verbal answer. ‘Now this loafer of a Lightfoot had a sister, and in respect of her, there’s no doubt about it that something discreditable might have been laid to James. For once in his life, he acted like a fool, and he wrote the girl a pile of letters. This fellow Lightfoot got hold of ‘em, and he’s made James pay through the nose ever since. Now the girl’s dead, and the thing’s so old, James has refused to keep this lazy beggar in his idleness and his dissipations any longer. The fellow’s tried to frighten him with the letters, and, failing in that, he’s worked up this lie against the firm, has got two more blackguards to swear to it, seemingly, and there’s the whole truth about the matter. I suppose they’ve got up some sort of a case, or Stubbs wouldn’t be looking at it. But we shall blow it all to smithereens when we get them in the witness box. Now, that’s the whole of the matter. Speak for yourself, James--make a clean breast of it. Isn’t that the truth? I haven’t exaggerated your iniquities, and you may just as well own up to ‘em.’