They came out of queer places,
where a good man would scarcely find himself, out of opium dens and
gambling hells; they had the heat of the thieves' kitchens or
smelled of a strange smoke from cannibal incantations. These are
the kind of stories which discredit a person almost equally whether
they are believed or no. If Keith's tales were false he was a liar;
if they were true he had had, at any rate, every opportunity of
being a scamp.
He had just left the room in which I sat with Basil Grant and his
brother Rupert, the voluble amateur detective. And as I say was
invariably the case, we were all talking about him. Rupert Grant
was a clever young fellow, but he had that tendency which youth and
cleverness, when sharply combined, so often produce, a somewhat
extravagant scepticism. He saw doubt and guilt everywhere, and it
was meat and drink to him. I had often got irritated with this
boyish incredulity of his, but on this particular occasion I am
bound to say that I thought him so obviously right that I was
astounded at Basil's opposing him, however banteringly.
I could swallow a good deal, being naturally of a simple turn, but
I could not swallow Lieutenant Keith's autobiography.
"You don't seriously mean, Basil," I said, "that you think that
that fellow really did go as a stowaway with Nansen and pretend to
be the Mad Mullah and--"
"He has one fault," said Basil thoughtfully, "or virtue, as you
may happen to regard it.
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