"
"Rummy go!" remarked Gammon.
"When I was a lad," pursued the other, after sipping at his refilled
glass, "I lived just by an old church in the City, and I knew the
verger, and he used to let me look over the registers. I think
that's what gave me my turn for genealogy. I believe there are
fellows who get a living by hunting up pedigrees; that would just
suit me, if I only knew how to start in the business."
Gammon looked up and asked abruptly.
"Know anybody called Quodling?"
"Quodling? No one personally. But there's a firm of Quodling,
brushmakers or something."
"Oil and colourmen?"
"Yes, to be sure. Quodling? Now I come to think of it--why do you
ask?"
"There's a man in the City called Quodling, a silk broker. For
private reasons I should like to know something about him."
Greenacre gazed absently at his friend, like one who tries to piece
together old memories.
"Lost it," he muttered at length in a discontented tone. "Something
about a Mrs. Quodling and a lawsuit--big lawsuit that used to be
talked about when I was a boy.
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