"I had it from Algy."

"That would all the less induce me to believe it."

"H'm!" the squire frowned. "Let me tell you--he's a dog--but it's a
damned hard thing to hear one's own flesh and blood abused. Look here:
there's a couple. One of them has made a fool of a girl. It can't be my
rascal--stop a minute--he isn't the man, because she'd have been sure to
have made a fool of him, that's certain. He's a soft-hearted dog. He'd
aim at a cock-sparrow, and be glad if he missed. There you have him. He
was one of your good boys. I used to tell his poor mother, 'When you
leave off thinking for him, he'll go to the first handy villain--and
that's the devil.' And he's done it. But, here's the difference. He
goes himself; he don't send another. I'll tell you what: if you don't
know about Mr. Ned's tricks, you ought. And you ought to make him marry
the girl, and be off to New Zealand, or any of the upside-down places,
where he might begin by farming, and soon, with his abilities, be cock o'
the walk. He would, perhaps, be sending us a letter to say that he
preferred to break away from the mother country and establish a republic.
He's got the same political opinions as you. Oh! he'll do well enough
over here; of course he will. He's the very fellow to do well. Knock at
him, he's hard as nails, and 'll stick anywhere. You wouldn't listen to
me, when I told you about this at Fairly, where some old sweetheart of
the girl mistook that poor devil of a scapegoat, Algy, for him, and went
pegging at him like a madman."

"No," said Sir William; "No, I would not. Nor do I now. At least," he
struck out his right hand deprecatingly, "I listen."

"Can you tell me what he was doing when he went to Italy?"