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Fardell exclaimed. "Honest thought! Yes! Where? In your study. That's where you theorists do your mischief. You can't make laws for the people in your study. You can't tell the status of the workingman from the figures you read in your study. You're like half the smug people in the world who discuss this question in the railway carriages and in their clubs.
His face and hands were twitching with fear. His eyes, as though fascinated, remained fixed upon Mannering's. All the while he mumbled to himself. Fardell drew Mannering a little on one side. "What can we do with him?" he asked. "We might tear up those sheets, give him money, keep him soddened with drink. And even then he'd give the whole show away the moment any one got at him.
The old man nodded. He was gazing at the silver in his hand. "I've writ it all out," he muttered. "I told 'un I would. A pound a week for ten years. That's what I 'ad! And then it stopped! Did she mean me to starve, eh? Not I! John Parkins knows better nor that. I've writ it all out, and there's my signature. It's gospel truth, too." "We are going to buy the truth from you," Fardell said.
"You must come with me at once and see this man," he said at last. "He has not yet signed his statement. We must do what we can to keep him quiet." Mannering took up his coat and hat without a word. They left the hotel, and Fardell summoned a cab. "It is a long way," he explained. "We will drive part of the distance and walk the rest. We may be watched already." Mannering nodded.
Then there was Fardell, also a schoolfellow, now a police magistrate, full of dry and pleasant humour, called by his intimates "The Beak "; Amberson, poseur and dilettante thirty years ago, but always a good fellow, now an acknowledged master of English prose and a critic whose word was unquestioned.
However, it was pronounced to be "a fardell of false reports, suggestions, and manifest lies." With amazing loyalty, Stubbs took off his cap with his left hand and shouted, "Long live Queen Elizabeth!"
Never in his most gloomy moments had he felt any real fear of a resurrection of the past such as that with which he was now threatened. It was a thunderbolt from a clear sky. Even now he found it hard to persuade himself that he was not dreaming. They were in the cab for nearly half an hour before Fardell stopped and dismissed it.
"I will go," he said. "I shall leave the cab for you. I can find my way back to the hotel." Fardell nodded. "It would be better," he said. "Turn your coat-collar up and draw your hat down over your eyes. You mustn't be recognized down here. It's a pretty low part."
If yer'll just hand over a trifle I'll send out for eh eh, my landlord, he's a kindly man he'll fetch it. Eh? Two of yer! I don't see so well as I did. Is that you, Mr. Ronaldson, sir?" Fardell threw some silver coins upon the table. The old man snatched them up eagerly. "It's not Mr. Ronaldson," he said, "but I daresay we shall do as well. We want to talk to you about those papers there."
Let us go in." Berenice was listening to Mannering's account of his last few days' electioneering. "The whole affair came upon me like a thunderclap," he told her. "Richard Fardell found it out somehow, and he took me to see Parkins. But it was too late. Polden had hold of the story and meant to use it.
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