"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. My father was a lawyer, you know."

"Was he? It's the first time you ever told me," replied Gammon with
a chuckle.

"Nonsense! I must have mentioned it many a time. I've often noticed,
Gammon, how very defective your memory is. You should use a mnemonic
system. I made a splendid one some years ago; it helped me
immensely."

"I could have felt sure," said Gammon, "that you told me once your
father was a coal merchant."

"Why, so he was--later on. Am I to understand, Gammon, that you