IX

"The morning begins auspiciously, does it not, my son?" he said. "And

still the day is young. Indeed, it cannot be more than eleven of the

clock. The rum decanter, Brutus."

The lines about his mouth softened as his gaze met mine, and his smile

grew broader.

"I pride myself," he went on, "that my example is all I promised. I fear

I shall fall down in only one respect. Perhaps you have observed it?"

"If I have," I answered, "I have forgotten."

"My table manners," he said. "I fear they are almost impeccable." And

he walked over to the window, taking care, I noticed, not to stand in

front of it.

"Sad, is it not, that I should fail in such a trivial matter? But it

happened so long ago while I was courting your mother, to be exact. My

father-in-law, rest his soul, was an atrocity at table. The viands, my

son, scattered from his knife over the board, like chaff before the

flail. Yet, will you believe it? Any time he chose to speak his mouth

was always full. I watched him, watched him with wonder--or was it

horror?--I cannot remember which. And I resolved to go, to go

anywhere, but never to do likewise. The result today is perhaps

unfortunate. Yet watch me, my son, even in that you see the practical

value of a bad example."

"Yes," I said, "I am watching you."

He seemed about to turn from the window, and then something outside held

his attention.

"Ha!" he said. "A sloop is coming in--a clumsy looking vessel. Whose is

it, Henry?"

I walked to the window to get a better look, but he reached out and drew

me near him.

"Let us be careful of the windows this morning. The light is bad, and we

have very much the same figure. There. Now you can see it--out by the

bar. It carries too much canvas forward and spills half the wind. Have

you seen it before, Henry?"

The sun had been trying to break through the clouds, and a few rays had

crept out, and glanced on the angry gray of the water, so that it shone

here and there like scratches in dull lead. The three ships near our

wharf were tossing fitfully, and on all three, the crews were busy with

the rigging. Out further towards the broad curve of the horizon was the

white smear of a sail, and as I looked, I could see the lines beneath

the canvas. He was right. It was a sloop, running free with the tide

pushing her on.

"Yes," I said, "I know the boat, though I do not see why she is

putting in."

"Ah," said my father, "and do you not? And whose boat may she be, Henry?"

"Two days ago she sailed from Boston for France. She belongs to Jason

Hill," I told him; and, a little puzzled, I looked again at the low dunes

and the marshes by the harbor mouth.

"I think," my father murmured half to himself, "that perhaps after all I

should have killed him. Brutus!"

Brutus, who had watched the scene with the same aloof politeness that he

might have watched guests at the dinner table, moved quickly forward.

"Has no word come yet?"

Brutus grinned and shook his head.

"The devil," said my father. "Aiken was here last evening, and got the

message I left him?"

Brutus nodded, and my father compressed his lips. Apparently deep in

thought, he took a few unhurried steps across the room, and glanced

about him critically.

"A busy day, my son," he said, "a very busy day, and a humorous one as

well. They think they can get the paper. They think--but they are all

mistaken."

"You are sure?" I inquired.

"Perfectly," said my father. "I shall dispose of it in my own way. I am

merely waiting for the time."

"Huh!"

Brutus cupped his great hand behind his ear, and nodded violently. My

father stepped toward the hallway, and listened. Above the hissing of the

fire I heard a voice and footsteps. He straightened the lace about his

wrists, and his features lost their strained attention. As he turned

towards Brutus, he seemed younger and more alertly active than I had ever

known him.

"Ah, what a day," he said, "what a day, to be sure. They are coming,

Brutus. Gad, but the years have been long since I have waited for them!

Place the glasses on the table, Brutus. We still must be hospitable."

The knocker on our front door sent a violent summons, but my father did

not seem to hear it. With graceful deliberation he was filling six

glasses from the decanter.

"Keep to the back of the room, my son," he said, "and listen. Who do you

think is coming? But you never can guess. Our neighbors, my son, our

neighbors. First your uncle, and then our neighbors. We are holding a

distinguished salon, are we not?"

But before I could answer or even conjecture why he should receive such a

visit, my father gave a low exclamation, partly of surprise, and partly

of well concealed annoyance, and stepped forward, bowing low.

Mademoiselle, bright-eyed, but very pale, had run into the morning room.

"The paper, captain," she cried, "are they coming for the paper? For, if

they are, they shall not have it. You--"

My father looked at her sharply, almost suspiciously.

"How are you here?" he demanded quickly, "Did not Brutus lock your door?"

"The lock was very rusty," she answered.

"Indeed?" said my father, "And how long ago did you find it out?"

"Only a minute back," she said, and again he glanced at her narrowly,

and finally shrugged his shoulders. As I look back on it, it was his

first mistake.

"Then I fear you have not seen much of the house," he said suavely, but

she disregarded his remark.

"Pray do not be alarmed, my lady," "At almost any time I am glad to see

you, but just at present--" he raised his voice to drown the din of the

knocker--"just at present your appearance, I fear, is a trifle

indiscreet. It is not the paper they wish, Mademoiselle. It is merely

myself, your humble servant, they require. But pray calm yourself and

rest assured they shall get neither. Let in our callers, Brutus."

He took her hand and bowed over it very low, and looked for an instant

into her eyes, with a faint hint of curiosity.

"And you?" she asked. "You have it still?"

"Temporarily, yes," he answered. "Show Mademoiselle a chair, my son, over

there behind me, where you both can witness the little drama. Perhaps it

is as well she came, after all."

Brutus had not forgotten his days as a house servant. Erect and

uncompromising he entered the room, facing toward us by the door.

"Mr. Penfield!" he called. "Captain Tracy! Captain Brown! Major Proctor!

Mr. Lane! Captain Dexter!"

"So," said Major Proctor, "you still have your damned party manners."

They had entered the room, and stood in a group before my father. Their

faces were set grimly. Their manner was stern and uncompromising, as

befitted men of unimpeachable position and integrity. As I watched them,

I still was wondering at their errand. Why should they, of all people

have paid this call? There was not one who did not own his ships and

counting house, not one who was not a leading trader in our seaport. In

all the years I had known them, not one had looked at me, or given me a

civil word, and indeed, they had little reason to give one. And yet, here

they were calling on my father.

It was an odd contradiction of the lesson books that of all the men in

the room, he should appear the most prepossessing. Though many of them

were younger, his clothes were more in fashion, and time had touched him

with a lighter hand. If I had come on them all as strangers, I should

have expected kindness and understanding from him first of any. His

forehead was broader, and his glance was keener. Indeed, there was none

who looked more the gentleman. There was no man who could have displayed

more perfect courtesy in his gravely polite salute.

"This," said my father, smiling, "is indeed a pleasure. I had hoped for

this honor, and yet the years have so often disappointed me that I had

only hoped."

Captain Tracy, short and squat, his hands held out in the way old sailors

have, as though ready instinctively to grasp some rope or bulwark, thrust

a bull neck forward, and peered at my father with little, reddened eyes,

opened in wide incredulity.

"You what?" he demanded hoarsely.

"I said, Captain Tracy, that I hoped,"--and my father helped himself to

snuff--"Will you be seated, gentlemen?"

"No," said Major Proctor.

"I have always noted," my father remarked, "that standing is better for

the figure. The climate, Major, has agreed with you."

Major Proctor launched on a savage rejoinder, but Mr. Penfield leaned

towards him with a whispered admonition.

"I take it," he said to my father, "that you did not read our letter. You

made a mistake, Mr. Shelton, a grave mistake, in not doing so."

"I am fond of reading," said my father, "and I found your letter--pardon

my rudeness--but I must be frank--I found your letter most amusing."

Mr. Lane stretched a claw-like hand toward him.

"You always did laugh," he cried shrilly.

"Never now, Mr. Lane," replied my father. "Yet I must admit, if

laughter were my habit--" he paused and surveyed Mr. Lane's pinched and

bony figure.

"You found the letter amusing, eh?" snapped Captain Tracy. "You found it

funny when we ordered you out of this town, did you? I suppose you

thought we were joking, eh? Well, by Gad, we weren't, and that's what

we've come to tell you. Heaven help us if we don't see you out on a rail,

you damned--"

"Gently, gently," interjected Mr. Penfield, in a soothing tone. "Let us

not use any harder words than necessary. Mr. Shelton will agree with us,

I am sure. Mr. Shelton did not understand. Perhaps Mr. Shelton has

forgotten."

"My memory," said my father, "still remains unimpaired. I recall the last

time I saw you was some ten years ago in this very house. I recall at

the time you warned me never to return here. In some ways, perhaps, you

were right, and yet at present I find my residence here most expedient.

Indeed, I find it quite impossible to leave. Frankly, gentlemen, the

house is watched, and it is as much as my life is worth to stir outside

the doors."

"Good God!" cried Mr. Lane, in the shrill voice that fitted him so well.

"We might have known it!"

There was a momentary silence, and Major Proctor whispered in Mr.

Penfield's ear.

"Captain Shelton," said Mr. Penfield, "I see your son and a woman are in

the room. It might be better if you sent them away. Your son, I have

heard, has learned to behave himself. There is no need for him to hear

what we have to say to you."

There was a note of raillery in his voice that must have offended

my father.

"Mr. Penfield is mistaken. I fear closed shutters make the room a trifle

dark to see clearly. It is a lady, Mr. Penfield, who is with us."

Captain Tracy laughed. My father's hand dropped to his side. For a moment

no one spoke. Captain Tracy moved his head half an inch further forward.

"Well?" he asked.

"Let us leave the matter for a moment," said my father. "It can wait.

Pray continue, Mr. Penfield. My son will be glad to listen."

Mr. Penfield cleared his throat, and looked at the others uncertainly.

"Go on, Penfield," said the Major.

"Mr. Shelton," began Mr. Penfield stiffly, "ten years ago you were a

gentleman."

"Could it have been possible?" said my father with a bow.

"Ten years ago you were a man that every one of us here trusted and

respected, a friend of several. In the War of the Revolution you

conducted yourself like a man of honor. You equipped your own brig with a

letter of marque, and sailed it yourself off Jamaica. You fought in three

engagements. You displayed a daring and bravery which we once admired."

"Could it have been possible?" my father bowed again. "I do recall I

failed to stay at home," he added, bowing again to Mr. Penfield.

Mr. Penfield frowned, and continued a little more quickly:

"And when you did return, you engaged in the China trade. You were a

successful man, Mr. Shelton. We looked upon you as one of the more

brilliant younger men of our seaport. We trusted you, Captain Shelton."

"Could it have been possible!" exclaimed my father.

"Yes," said Mr. Penfield in a louder tone, "we trusted you. You have only

to look at your books, if you have kept them, to remember that."

"My books," said my father, "still contrive to balance."

"In the year 1788," Mr. Penfield went on, "you remember that year, do you

not? In that year the six of us here engaged in a venture. From the north

we had carried here five hundred bales of fur, valued at fifty dollars to

the bale. You contracted with us, Captain Shelton, to convey those bales

to England. It would have been a nice piece of business, if your

supercargo had not been an honest man. He knew you, Shelton, if we did

not. He knew the game you had planned to play, and though he was your

brother-in-law, he was man enough to stop it."

Mr. Penfield's voice had risen, so that it rang through the room, and

his words followed each other in cold indictment. The others stood

watching my father with strained attention.

"Indeed," he said.

"Yes," said Mr. Penfield, "as you so aptly put it--indeed. Your ship

carrying that consignment, had Jason Hill as supercargo, and Ned Aiken,

that damned parasite of yours, as master. A day out from this port, a

plank sprung aft, which obliged him to put back to Boston for repairs.

The cargo was trans-shipped. When it was aboard again, Jason Hill

happened to examine that cargo. The furs had gone. In their place five

hundred bales of chips had been loaded in the hold. He went to the master

for an explanation. Mr. Aiken, who had been drinking heavily, was asleep

in the cabin, and on the table beside him was a letter, Shelton. You

remember that letter? It bore instructions from you to scuttle that ship

ten miles out of Liverpool harbor."

"And," said my father, with another bow, "I was to collect the insurance.

It was nicely planned."

"If you remember that, you recall what happened next. We called on you,

Shelton, and accused you of what you had done. You neither confirmed

nor denied it. We told you then to leave the town. We warned you never

to return. We warned you that we were through with your trickery. We

were through with your cheating and your thieving. We warned you,

Shelton, and now you're back, back, by your own confession, on another

rogue's errand."

"Not on another's," my father objected mildly. "One of my own, Mr.

Penfield. The experience you have outlined so lucidly convinced me that

it was better to stick closely to my own affairs."

"Mr. Shelton," Mr. Penfield went on, regardless of the interruption, "we

warned you yesterday to leave the town before nightfall, and you have

failed to take our advice."

"I see no reason why I should leave," replied my father easily. "I am

comfortable here for the moment. I would not be outside. Even the

arguments you have given are specious. You got your furs back, and if I

recall, they proved to be so badly moth eaten that they were not fit for

any trade."

"Even though you see no reason," said Major Proctor smoothly, "you are

going to leave, Shelton. You are going to leave in one hour. If you

delay a minute later, we will come with friends who will know how to

handle you. We will come in an hour with a tar pot and a feather

mattress."

"You are not only unwelcome to us on account of your past," said Mr.

Penfield, "but more recent developments make it impossible, quite

impossible for you to stay. We have heard your story already from Mr.

Jason Hill. You are right that it is no concern of ours, except that we

remember the good of this town. We have a business with France, and we

cannot afford to lose it. Major Proctor was blunt just now, and yet he is

right. Give us credit for warning you, at least. You will go, of course?"

My father smiled again, and smoothed the wrinkles of his coat. For

some reason the scene seemed vastly pleasant. He shrugged his

shoulders in a deprecatory gesture, walked over to the table, and

lifted up a glass of ram.

"I remarked before that I was quite comfortable here," he replied after a

moment's pause. "I may add that I am amused. Since I have returned to the

ancestral roof, and looked again at the portraits of my family, I have

had many callers to entertain me. Two have tried to rob me. One has

threatened me with death. And now six come, and threaten me with tar and

feathers. Positively, it is too diverting to leave. Pray don't interrupt

me, Captain Tracy. In a moment you shall have the floor."

He took a sip from his rum glass, watching them over the brim. And then

he continued, slowly and coldly, yet turning every period with a

perfect courtesy:

"There is one thing, only one, that you and all my other callers appear

to have overlooked. You fail for some reason to realize that I do things

only of my own volition. It is eccentric, I know, but we all have our

failings."

He paused to place his glass daintily on the table, and straightened the

lace at his wrist with careful solicitude.

"Once before this morning I have stated that I am not particularly afraid

of anything. Strange as it may seem, this statement still applies. Or put

it this way,--I have grown blase. People have threatened me too often.

No, gentlemen, you are going to lose your trading privileges, I think.

And I am going to remain in my house quite as long as I choose."

"Which will be one hour," said Major Proctor.

"Be careful, Major," said my father. "You have grown too stout to risk

your words. Do you care to know why I am going to remain?"

No one answered.

"Then I will tell you," he went on. "Three of my ships are in the harbor,

and times are troublesome at sea. They are armed with heavy metal, and

manned by quite as reckless and unpleasant a lot of men as I have ever

beheld on a deck. Between them they have seventeen guns of varying

calibre, and there is powder in their magazines. Do I need to go any

further, or do we understand each other?"

"No," snapped Captain Tracy hoarsely. "I'm damned if we do."

"It sounds crude, as I say it," he continued apologetically, "and yet

true, nevertheless. As soon as I see anyone of you, or any of my other

neighbors enter my grounds again, I shall order my ships to tack down the

river, and open fire on the town. They have sail ready now, gentlemen. My

servant has gone already to carry them my order."

"And you'll hang for piracy tomorrow morning," laughed the Major

harshly. "Shelton, you have grown mad."

"Exactly," said my father gently. "Mad, Major. Mad enough to put my

threat into effect in five minutes, if you do not leave this house; mad

enough to scuttle every ship in this harbor; mad enough to set your

warehouses in flames; mad enough even to find the company of you and your

friends most damnably dull and wearisome; mad enough to wonder why I ever

suffered you to remain so long beneath my roof; mad enough to believe you

a pack of curs and cowards, and mad enough to treat you as such. Keep

off, Tracy, you bloated fool!"

"By God!" Captain Tracy shouted, "We'll burn this house over your head.

In an hour we'll have you shot against the town hall."

"Perhaps," said my father, "and yet I doubt it. Pray remember that I keep

my word. Your hats are in the hall, gentlemen. In three minutes now my

ships weigh anchor. If you do not go, I cannot stop them."

Mr. Penfield had grown a trifle pale. "Captain Shelton," he demanded

slowly, "are you entirely serious? I almost believe you are. Of course

you understand the consequences?"

"Perfectly," said my father.

"Let us go, gentlemen," said Mr. Penfield. "You will hear from us later."

And he turned quickly towards the hall.

As he did so, my father drew back his right arm, and drove his fist into

Captain Tracy's upturned face. His blow was well directed, for the

captain staggered and fell. In almost the same motion he wheeled on Major

Proctor, who had started back, and was tugging at his sword.

"Later, perhaps, Major," he said, without even lifting his voice. "But

today I am busy. Pray take him away. He was always indiscreet. And you,"

he added to Mr. Lane, "surely you know well enough not to try conclusions

with me. Take him away. Your hats are in the hall. I shall show you the

door myself. After you, gentlemen."

And he followed them, closing the door gently behind him.

X

Mademoiselle, who had risen from her chair, where she had listened, only

half understanding the conversation in a tongue foreign from hers, stared

at the closed door, her lips parted, and her forehead wrinkled.

"What have they been saying?" she asked. "Why are they afraid? Is

everyone afraid of this father of yours?"

And then, impulsively, she seized me by the arm.

"But it makes no difference. Come, it is our one chance; come quickly,

Monsieur. I must speak to you, where he will not disturb us."

"But where?" I asked, still staring straight before me; and then I

noticed a bolt on the morning room door. I sprang toward it and drew it

hastily. "It will do no good to talk, Mademoiselle. If you had

understood--" And as I spoke, the enormity of the thing loomed still

larger before me.

"Mademoiselle, this morning he has robbed my uncle of a fortune, snatched

it from him here in this very room, and now he has threatened to move

his ships into midstream, and to open fire on the town! And Mademoiselle,

he means to do it. I thought once--but he means to do it, Mademoiselle."

She pursed her lips, and looked at me from the corner of her eye.

"Pouf!" she said. "So you are growing frightened also. Yet I can

understand. The Marquis always said that Captain Shelton could frighten

the devil himself."

"Frightened!" I echoed, and the blood rushed into my cheeks.

"Mon Dieu! Perhaps you are not. Listen, Monsieur, I am not taunting you.

I am not saying he will not. He is serious, Monsieur, and you must leave

him alone, or perhaps I shall not get the paper after all, and remember,

I must have it. My brother must have it, and he shall, only you must not

disturb him. He may shoot at the town, if he cares to, or murder your

uncle. He has often spoken of it at Blanzy, but the paper is another

matter. You must leave it to me."

"To you!" I cried.

"Precisely," said Mademoiselle. "You--what can you do? You are young. You

are inexperienced. Pardon me, but you would be quite ineffective."

My cheeks flamed again. Somehow no sarcasm of my father's had bitten as

deep as those last words of hers. I do not know whether it was chagrin or

anger that I felt at the bitter sense of my own futility. And she had

seen it all. As coldly and as accurately as my father, she had watched

me, and as coldly she had given her verdict. She was watching me now with

a cool, confident smile that made me turn away.

"Ah," she said, "I have hurt you, and believe me, I did not mean to."

Something in the polite impersonality of her voice gave me a vague

resentment. She had moved nearer, and yet I could not meet her glance.

"I am sorry" she said, and paused expectantly, but I could only stare at

the floor in silence.

"Believe me, I am sorry."

It might have been different if I had detected the slightest contrition,

but instead I seemed only to afford her mild amusement.

"There is no need to be sorry," I replied.

"Ah, but there is!" she said quickly, "Last night you were very kind.

Last night you tried to help me."

I seemed to see her again, standing pale and troubled, while my

father watched her, coldly appraising, and Brutus grinned at her

across the room.

"Mademoiselle" I began, "Anything that I did last night--"

"Was quite unnecessary," she said, "And very foolish."

I drew a sharp breath. The bit of gallantry I had on my mind to speak

seemed weak and useless now.

"Mademoiselle is mistaken" I lied smoothly, "Nothing that I did last

night was on her account."

"Nothing!" she exclaimed sharply, "I do not understand."

"No, nothing," I said, "Pray believe me, anything I did, however foolish,

was solely for myself. I have my own affair to settle with my father."

"Bah!" cried Mademoiselle, tapping her foot on the floor, and oddly

enough my reply seemed to have made her angry, "So you are like all the

rest of them, stupid, narrow, calculating!"

"If Mademoiselle will only listen," I began, strangely puzzled and

singularly contrite.

"Listen to you!" she cried, "No, Monsieur, I have listened to you quite

long enough to know your type. I see now you are quite what I thought you

would be. I say you are entirely ineffective, and must leave your father

alone. You do not understand him. You do not even know him. With me it is

different. I have seen the world. He is temperamental, your father, a

genius in his way, and a little mad, perhaps. Leave him to me, Monsieur,

and it will be quite all right. Last night, it was so sudden, that I was

frightened for a moment. I should have remembered he is erratic and apt

to change his mind. I should have guessed why he changed it. It is you,

Monsieur. You have had a bad effect upon him. You have made him turn

suddenly grotesque. What did you do to him last evening?

"Do to him?" I asked, stupidly enough. "Why, nothing. I listened to him,

Mademoiselle, just as I have been listening to him all this morning."

"And yet," she said, "it is your fault. Usually he is most well behaved.

He is moderate, Monsieur. At Blanzy a glass of wine at dinner was all he

ever desired. For days at a time, I have hardly heard him say a word. The

Marquis would call him the Sphinx, and what has he been doing here?

Drinking bottle after bottle, talking steadily, acting outrageously. What

is more, he has been doing so ever since he spoke of returning home. I

tell you, Monsieur, you must keep away from him, or perhaps he will do

with the paper exactly what he says. Pray do not scowl. Laugh, Monsieur,

it is funny."

"Funny?" I exclaimed, as stupidly as before. Mademoiselle sighed.

"If the Marquis had only lived--how he would have laughed. It was odd,

the sense of humor of the Marquis. Strange how much alike they were, the

Marquis and your father."

"It is pleasant that Mademoiselle and I should have something in

common," I said.

Her gaze grew very soft and far away.

"Not as much as they had. We never shall. I think it was because they

both were embittered with life, both a trifle tired and cynical. My

father thought there should be a king of France, and yet I think he knew

there could not be one. Your father--it is another story."

"Quite," I agreed. "And yet Mademoiselle will pardon me--I fail to see

what they had in common."

"You say that," said Mademoiselle, "because you do not know him as well

as I do. Do you not see that he is a bitter, disappointed man? They were

both disappointed."

I examined the bolt on the door, and found it firm, despite its age. I

glanced over the long, low studded room, and moved a chair from the

center to a place nearer the wall. Her glance followed me inquiringly,

but I forestalled her question.

"Mademoiselle," I observed, "was pointing out that she found something

droll in the situation."

"And is it not droll you should have changed him?" she inquired, and yet

I thought she looked around uneasily. "You have, Monsieur. He was

cautious before this. He foresaw everything. He was willing to risk

nothing. He even warned the Marquis against attacking the coach."

I began to perceive why the Marquis honored my father with his

friendship.

"Was attacking coaches a frequent habit of the Marquis?" I asked.

"Has he not told you?" she exclaimed, raising her eyebrows.

"One would hardly call our conversation confidential," I explained. "Is

that what you find so droll?"

And indeed, she seemed in a rare good humor, and inexplicably gay. A

curious Mona Lisa smile kept bending her lips and twinkling in her eyes.

The lowering clouds outside, the creakings of the beams and rafters under

the east wind, nor even the drab gloom of her surroundings seemed to

dampen her sudden access of good nature. The events she had witnessed

seemed also to please her. Was it spite that had made her smile when she

watched my father and his visitors? Was it spite that made her smile now,

as she gazed at the room's battered prosperity, and at my grandfather's

portrait above the mantlepiece, in the unruffled dignity of its

blackening oils?

"It was the coach," said Mademoiselle, "of Napoleon at Montmareuil. A

dozen of them set upon the coach. The lead horses were killed, and in an

instant they were at the doors. They flung them open, but he was not

inside. Instead, the coach was filled with the consular police. The

paper, the paper they had signed, was at Blanzy, and your father had

agreed to rescue it in case of accident. He would not leave me, Monsieur,

and he would not destroy the paper."

She paused, and regarded me with a frown that had more of curiosity in it

than displeasure.

"It was all well enough," she added, "until he heard of you, until you

and he had dinner. It is something you did, something you said, that has

made it all different. I ask you--what have you done to him? He was our

friend before he saw you. Or why would he have ridden through half of

France with Napoleon's police a half a league behind him? Why did he risk

everything to bring out the paper when he might have burned it? Why did

he not sell it there? He might have done so half a dozen times. Why does

he wait till now?

"Do you know what I would say if you were older and less transparent? Do

you know?"

An imperious, ringing note had entered into her voice, which made me

regard her with a sudden doubt. About her was the same charm and mystery

that had held me silent and curious, the same unnatural assurance, and

cold disregard of her surroundings; but her eyes had grown watchful and

unfriendly.

"I would say that you had turned him against us, and if you had--"

"Mademoiselle is overwrought," I said.

She tapped her foot on the floor impatiently, and compressed her lips.

"I am never overwrought," said Mademoiselle. "It is a luxury my family

has not been allowed for many years. I say your father was an honest man,

as men go, and a brave one too, and that you have changed him, and I warn

you to leave him alone in the future. You do not know him, or how to deal

with him. I tell you his trifling about the paper is a passing phase, and

that you must not disturb him. No, no, do not protest. I know well enough

you are not to blame. You must leave him to me. That is all."

"It pains me not to do as Mademoiselle suggests," I said.

"You mean you will not?" she flashed back at me angrily.

"I mean I will not," I answered with sudden heat, "No," I added more

harshly, as she attempted to interrupt, "Now you will listen to me. You

say I am a fool. You say I can do nothing against him. Perhaps not,

Mademoiselle, but what I see is this: I see you in a dangerous situation

through no fault of your own, and whether you wish it or not, I am going

to get you out of it. He has done enough, Mademoiselle, and this is going

to be the end. By heaven, if he looks at you again--"

"But you said--" she interrupted.

I did not have the chance to continue, for a hand was trying the latch of

the door, and then a sharp knock interrupted me. My father was standing

on the threshold. With a smile and a nod to me, he entered, and proceeded

to the center of the room, while I closed the door behind him, and bolted

it again. If he noticed my action, he did not choose to comment. Instead,

he continued towards the chair where Mademoiselle was seated.

"I had hoped that you might get along more pleasantly, you and my son,"

he observed. "Surely he has points in his favor--youth, candor, even a

certain amount of breeding. You have been hard on him, Mademoiselle. Take

my word for it--he is to blame for nothing."

"So you have been listening," she said.

"As doubtless Mademoiselle expected," said my father. "I had hoped--"

"And so had I," I said.

He turned and faced me.

"Hoped," I continued, raising my voice, "that you might enter here, and

leave your servant somewhere else. I have wanted to have a quiet talk

with you this morning."

If he noted anything unusual in my request, he did not show it, not so

much as by a flicker of an eyelash.

"It has hardly been opportune for conversation," he admitted. "But now,

as you say, Brutus is gone. He is out to receive a message I am

expecting, which can hardly be delivered at the front door. You were

saying--Doubtless Mademoiselle will pardon us--"

"Mademoiselle," I went on, "will even be interested. I have wanted to

speak to you so that I might explain myself. Since I have been here I

fear I have been impulsive. You must lay it to my youth, father."

He nodded a grave assent.

"You must not apologize. It has been quite refreshing."

"And yet I am not so young. I am twenty-three."

"Can it be possible?" exclaimed my father. "I had almost forgotten that

I was so near the grave."

"I came to see you here," I continued, "because, as my uncle said, you

are my father. I came here because--because I thought--" I paused and

drew a deep breath, and my father smiled.

"Why I came is aside from the point, at any rate," I said.

"Indeed yes," agreed my father, "and have we not been over the

matter before?"

"If you had accorded me one serious word, it might have been different,"

I continued; "but instead, sir, you have seen fit to jest. It is not what

you have done this morning, sir, as much as your manner towards me, which

makes me take this step. That you have brought a lady from France and

robbed her, that you have robbed my uncle, and have threatened to fire on

the town--somehow they seem no particular affair of mine except for this:

You seem to think that I am incapable of doing anything to hinder you,

and frankly, sir, this hurts my pride. You feel that I am going to sit by

passively and watch you."

I came a step nearer, but he did not draw back. He only continued

watching me with a patient intentness, which seemed gradually to merge

into some more active interest. His interest deepened when I spoke again,

but that was all.

"You feel I am going to be still, and do nothing, even after you

drugged me last evening. Did you think I would not resent it? You are

mistaken, father."

My father rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"I had not thought of it exactly so," he said, "yet I had to keep

you quiet."

"So, if the tables were turned, and I were you, and you were I, you would

hardly let matters go on without joining in?"

"Hardly," he agreed. "You have thought the matter out very prettily, my

son. It is an angle I seem to have neglected. It only remains to ask what

you are going to do. Let us trust it will be nothing stupid."

"I am glad you understand," I said, "because now it will be perfectly

clear why I am asking you for the paper, and you will appreciate any

steps I may take to get it."

He cast a quick glance around the room, and seemed satisfied that we were

quite alone.

"Do I understand," he inquired, "that you have asked me for the paper?"