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He was the worst kind of Englishman; he could not even cheat
without being found out. But for the wise counsels of his lady he would
have been in the lock-up over and over again. Such being the case, he
took a justifiable pride in his Anglo-Saxon origin. Whenever a project
seemed too risky--not worth while, he called it--he would say:
"It can't be done. That's a job for a Dago. I'm an Englishman, you
know."
He had knocked about the world a good bit, had Mr. Parker. His last
known domicile was Nicaragua. There he invested in some land affair--a
most unfortunate speculation, as it turned out. All his speculation had
a way of turning badly. That was because people, even people in
Nicaragua, distrusted him for one reason or another; they said his
whole existence was a tangle of shady and ignoble transactions--that he
looked like a fraud, and behaved like one. He couldn't help his face;
but his face, they soon discovered, was not the only, or even the most,
evasive and fugitive part of his personality.


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