Thus were things set
in train. At a second meeting with the venerable bagman--who had a
wonderful head for whisky--Gammon acquired so much technical
information that oil and colours might fairly be set down among his
numerous "specialities." Moreover, his friend promised to speak a
word for him in the right quarter when opportunity offered.
"By the way," Gammon remarked carelessly, "are these Quodlings any
relation to Quodling the silk broker in the City?"
His companion smiled over the rim of a deep tumbler, and continued
to smile through a long draught.
"Why do you ask?"
"No particular reason. Happen to know the other man--by sight."
"They're brothers--Quodling senior and the broker."
"What's the joke?" asked Gammon, as the other still smiled.
"Old joke--very old joke. The two men just as unlike as they could
be--in face, I mean. I never took the trouble to inquire about it,
but I've been told there was a lawsuit years ago, something to do
with the will of Lord somebody, who left money to old Mrs.
Quodling--who wasn't old then.
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