TRENCHARD. You ought to have written him a letter, and left the firm the
moment you found out. Even then, legally . . ! But as he was your
father. What was his object in telling you? What did he expect you to
do?
EDWARD. I've thought of every reason . . and now I really believe it was
that he might have someone to boast to of his financial exploits.
TRENCHARD. [_appreciatively._] I daresay.
BOOTH. Scarcely matters to boast of!
TRENCHARD. Oh, you try playing the fool with other people's money, and
keeping your neck out of the noose for twelve years. It's not so easy.
EDWARD. Then, of course, he always protested that things would come
right . . that he'd clear the firm and have a fortune to the good. Or
that if he were not spared I might do it. But he must have known that
was impossible.
TRENCHARD. But there's the gambler all over.
EDWARD. Why, he actually took the trouble to draw up this will!
TRENCHARD. That was childish.
EDWARD. I'm the sole executor.
TRENCHARD. So I should think . . Was I down for anything?
EDWARD. No.
TRENCHARD. [_without resentment._] How he did hate me!
EDWARD. You're safe from the results of his affection anyway.
TRENCHARD. What on earth made you stay in the firm once you knew?
EDWARD _does not answer for a moment_.
EDWARD. I thought I might prevent things from getting any worse. I think
I did . . well, I should have done that if he'd lived.
TRENCHARD. You knew the risk you were running?
EDWARD. [_bowing his head._] Yes.
TRENCHARD, _the only one of the three who comprehends, looks at his
brother for a moment with something that might almost be admiration.
Then he stirs himself._
TRENCHARD. I must be off. Business waiting . . end of term, you know.
BOOTH. Shall I walk to the station with you?
TRENCHARD. I'll spend a few minutes with Mother. [_he says, at the door,
very respectfully._] You'll count on my professional assistance, please,
Edward.
EDWARD. [_simply._] Thank you, Trenchard.
_So_ TRENCHARD _goes. And the Major, who has been endeavouring to fathom
his final attitude, then comments_--
BOOTH. No heart, y'know! Great brain! If it hadn't been for that
distressing quarrel he might have saved our poor father. Don't you think
so, Edward?
EDWARD. Perhaps.
HUGH. [_giving vent to his thoughts at last with something of a
relish._] The more I think this out, the more devilishly humorous it
gets. Old Booth breaking down by the grave . . Colpus reading the
service . .
EDWARD. Yes, the Vicar's badly hit.
HUGH. Oh, the Pater had managed his business for years.
BOOTH. Good God . . how shall we ever look old Booth in the face again?
EDWARD. I don't worry about him; he can die quite comfortably enough on
six shillings in the pound. It's one or two of the smaller fry who will
suffer.
BOOTH. Now, just explain to me . . I didn't interrupt while Trenchard
was talking . . of what exactly did this defrauding consist?
EDWARD. Speculating with a client's capital . . pocketing the gains,
cutting the losses; meanwhile paying the client his ordinary income.
BOOTH. So that he didn't find it out?
EDWARD. Quite so.
BOOTH. In point of fact, he doesn't suffer?
EDWARD. He doesn't suffer till he finds it out.
BOOTH. And all that's wrong now is that some of their capital is
missing.
EDWARD. [_half amused, half amazed at this process of reasoning._] Yes,
that's all that's wrong.