'A monstrous foible?' said Lyon.
'He's a thumping liar.'
Lyon's brush stopped short, while he repeated, for somehow the formula startled him, 'A thumping liar?'
'You are very lucky not to have found it out.'
'Well, I confess I have noticed a romantic tinge———'
'Oh, it isn't always romantic. He'll lie about the time of day, about the name of his hatter. It appears there are people like that.'
'Well, they are precious scoundrels,' Lyon declared, his voice trembling a little with the thought of what Everina Brant had done with herself.
'Oh, not always,' said the old man. 'This fellow isn't in the least a scoundrel. There is no harm in him and no bad intention; he doesn't steal nor cheat nor gamble nor drink; he's very kind—he sticks to his wife, is fond of his children. He simply can't give you a straight answer.'
'Then everything he told me last night, I suppose, was mendacious: he delivered himself of a series of the stiffest statements. They stuck, when I tried to swallow them, but I never thought of so simple an explanation.'
'No doubt he was in the vein,' Sir David went on. 'It's a natural peculiarity—as you might limp or stutter or be left-handed. I believe it comes and goes, like intermittent fever. My son tells me that his friends usually understand it and don't haul him up—for the sake of his wife.'
'Oh, his wife—his wife!' Lyon murmured, painting fast.
'I daresay she's used to it.'
