"Well, Squire, I've called to settle up that little matter that has been
outstanding," said Develin Hunt pleasantly as he took the seat indicated
to him--exactly the same seat, by the way, that he had occupied during
that first interview in which we made his personal acquaintance.
"Yes?"
"Yes. But first of all you'll admit that I haven't hurried you any over
the inquiries you've been making; in fact, have afforded you every
facility I could in the making of them."
"Yes; I'll admit that."
"And it's a case of `as you were.' Well, it's satisfactory to both of
us, because now there's no room for any little mistake. I have enjoyed
my stay in this charming neighbourhood. By the way, I hope you enjoyed
yours at the moors, Squire, and had good sport. Well, now, I've got a
modification of my former proposal to put to you. I've decided that
this part of the country, delightful as it is, won't suit me for more
than one reason; so, instead of becoming a neighbour of yours, I would
suggest some comfortable little arrangement in hard cash."
"Yes. May I ask what would meet your requirements? Don't be too
modest, pray."
The adventurer's face brightened. The easy tone, the satiric banter was
only the other's philosophical and courtly manner of making the best of
a bad job. He had won the game at last.
"What do you say to thirty thou? Not all at once; I would be prepared
to accept a cheque for twenty-five thou, down, and the rest six months
later."
"That would be very considerate of you," laughed the Squire. "I begged
you not to be too moderate."
"And I haven't met your wishes, Squire. Thirty thou, is a substantial
figure, but it is a mere half-crown to the Wagrams of Hilversea. It's
surprising how much I know about the family and its circumstances, you
see. Nearly ruined in fines for persistent recusancy under the penal
laws, a lucky speculation or two in building-land and coal mines made it
a millionaire over and over again. That's correct, I think, Squire?"
"Nearly."
"And all this for the benefit of Everard--`Butcher Ned,' we used to call
him--never mind why. Well, I'm truly glad it needn't go to him after
all. So we'll consider my terms accepted, eh, Squire?"
"Not so fast--not quite so fast. You don't seem to realise, Mr Develin
Hunt, what an exceedingly perilous position you have placed yourself in.
How do you know, for instance, that there are not those present, unseen
by you, who have been taking down every word of our conversation?"
The adventurer laughed easily.
"Oh, as to that, I know it; because Grantley Wagram of Hilversea is
considerably too complete a gentleman to admit the secret presence of a
third party at a confidential conversation."
In spite of the momentous issues at stake the consummate assurance of
this man tickled the old Squire's diplomatic soul.
"I don't know. There is such a thing as fighting the devil with fire--
no play on your somewhat peculiar name intended, Mr Hunt," he
parenthesised, with a smile. "And the fact remains that you have been
demanding money from me--a large sum--very civilly, I admit,"--with a
courtly wave of the hand--"but still demanding it by a threat. That, as
I reminded you on the occasion of our first meeting, means in this
country a long term of penal servitude."
"For me?"
"For whom else?"
"For Everard."
Even the cool old diplomat felt his cheeks go waxen, nor could he
repress a slight gasp. He remembered the other's assertion on a former
occasion--to the effect that he had a hold upon Everard--and, bearing in
mind Everard and his propensities, he thought it very likely to be true.
"For Everard," repeated the adventurer. "Every year that it would mean
for me it would mean two for Everard; indeed, it is possible--I don't
say certain, mind--that it might result in something shorter, sharper,
and much quicker over, but--more irrevocable."
The other felt himself growing paler still. A hopeless, beaten feeling
came upon him now. Curiously enough, he was not without a consciousness
of appreciation of the courteous way in which this man urged his
demands. There was nothing of the common, bullying insolence of the
blackmailer about him. He might almost have been a disinterested friend
urging a certain course for the good of the family.
"Do you mind opening that window a little, Mr Hunt?" he said. "I do
believe I really am getting old."
"Delighted, Squire," said the adventurer with alacrity. "Getting old!"
as he returned to his seat, "why, you are not even beginning to get old;
or, if you are, all I can say is that many a much younger man would be
glad to do so on the same terms. But, in any case, why add another
anxiety--a totally unnecessary anxiety--to your afternoon of life, and
all for a paltry thirty thousand pounds, which, as I said before, can
only be, relatively, a mere half-crown to you?"
"That's all very well; but what guarantee have I that it would end
there?"
"I would give you an undertaking, cautiously worded, of course, to make
no further demand upon you, nor upon anybody after you, for another
farthing."
"Legally, not worth the paper it's written on," said the Squire.
"I'm afraid that's so; still, it would make a very strong piece of
presumptive evidence against me if I did fail to keep my word. You may
trust me this time. I don't profess to be a saint or angel, I own to
having done some pretty tough things in my time, but one thing I never
have done, and that is to go back on a fair, square, and honest deal.
Think of your son, Squire--Wagram, I mean--I have seen him more than
once, not always when he has seen me. By the way, he turned me off here
once when I was trespassing, but he did it in such a nice way, as
between one gentleman and another. He's a fine fellow--a splendid
fellow--and I've heard a good deal more about him than I've seen. Well,
isn't it a thousand pities that life should be ruined for him, and his
son after him--I have seen him too, by-the-by--and all because you can't
bring yourself to look at things from my standpoint, which is that
necessity has no law?"
There was silence for a few moments. In saying that he had seen more of
Wagram than the latter knew Develin Hunt was speaking no more than the
truth. He had noted the quiet happiness of the man's flawless life, had
gleaned some idea of his intense joy of possession, and had done so with
considerable satisfaction in that it would all go to further his own
plans. No man living, he argued, would think twice as to what his
action would be when called upon to choose between paying down what was,
relatively speaking, an inconsiderable sum and throwing up his
possessions and his name, and the name of his son after him--and to the
case of this one was added an almost unlimited power for good. To do so
would be the action of a stark, staring, raving lunatic, and it was
abundantly certain Wagram was not that.
"Well, Squire, now is the time to make up your mind. It is important
that I should go up to London to-night, and unless I take your cheque
for twenty-five thousand with me I shall be under the necessity of
postponing my departure for a day or two and applying to your son
Wagram. I believe he would gladly give double the amount. Think! it is
to save his name--his name, mind--and his son's after him."
The old man felt beaten. It was not the money value that afflicted him;
he would cheerfully have parted with double the amount if by so doing he
could close the other's mouth for ever, but he doubted whether in any
case he could do this for long. Sooner or later Hunt would come down
upon him for more--it was the way of blackmailers for all time--nor did
he in the least believe this one would keep his undertaking to make no
further demand. And this disreputable adventurer had the power to hold
a sword over Wagram's head indefinitely. He remembered as a far-off
thing his agreement with Monsignor Culham--here in this very room--not
to give this man another shilling. Yet now matters looked differently;
he felt himself cornered beyond all hope of deliverance.
"Give me the undertaking you mentioned just now," he said at last. "Sit
down there and draw it up," pointing to another writing-table.
"No need, Squire, I have it here all ready; I knew we should come to
terms. Here it is, and you may rely upon my adhering to it rigidly."
He produced a paper with some writing on it as the Squire, slowly
unlocking a drawer, produced his chequebook. A moment more and the
adventurer could hardly contain his exultation. A cheque for 25,000
pounds was in his hand.
"It will be a satisfaction for you to see me sign this yourself,
Squire," and stooping over the writing-table he affixed his signature.
As he did so the door opened, admitting Wagram.
Even had the latter no other reason for coming in, then one glance at
his father's face would have told him that something was very wrong
indeed. The Squire seemed to have aged by twenty years.
"Ah, good-morning, Mr Wagram," said the adventurer cheerily, looking up.
"Your father and I have just been getting through a little piece of
business together, and we have got through it with complete satisfaction
to both parties. Yes; to both parties," he repeated emphatically.
"May I ask its nature? My father's business affairs are mine in there
days."
"Ah, but not this one--no, not this one. It's an exception, believe
me," was the answer, accompanied by a pleasant laugh. "And now I think
I will say good-bye."
"One moment, Mr Develin Hunt," said Wagram, "but I fear I must detain
you a little longer, there is something that needs explanation."
The other looked at the tall form, literally barring his way, and a
ghastly misgiving was upon him. The cheque for 25,000 pounds--would he
be forced to disgorge? But he replied, easily, pleasantly:
"Quite a mistake. No explanation needed. Is there, Squire?"
Wagram looked sharply at his father, whose only answer was a
feebly-assenting headshake.
"Ah, but there is," he resumed. "For instance, there is one remark you
made just now to the effect that I would gladly give double the amount
to save my name, and that of my son after me. Now, that remark does
emphatically need explaining."
"You heard that?" said the adventurer shortly.
"Couldn't help it. This room is only one storey from ground. Given an
open window and still autumn air, and--"
Develin Hunt mentally ground his teeth and cursed. So it was with a
purpose the Squire had asked him to open the window! As a matter of
real fact, this was not the case. Oh, the old fox, with all his
blandness and soft sawder! He felt vicious.
"That all you heard?" he said shortly.
"Enough, wasn't it? Now, will you kindly tell me in what way my name
needs saving; for, looking back, though I have been through hard times,
I cannot--thank God--call to mind any instance of having ever disgraced
it."
The adventurer felt a wave of intense relief. This was how Wagram had
read his words! Well, he would reassure him on that point; perhaps he
might even yet save the situation.
"No! no! no!" he said emphatically. "Great Scott! Mr Wagram, but
you've got hold of the wrong end of the stick there. Why, your name
stands on a pedestal all around here, and, if you will allow me to say
so, it thoroughly deserves to. Now, be advised by me. Leave this
affair alone. It is between myself and your father, and reflects
discredit upon nobody named Wagram--take my word for that."
You see, he was plausible, almost persuasive, this rough-and-tumble West
African adventurer. But Wagram shook his head.
"Not satisfactory," he said. "I still demand to know in what way my
name needs `saving'--and that of my son after me, you added."
"You demand?"
"Yes."
Develin Hunt looked at the man standing over him very stern and
straight, then he looked at the Squire. He would have given anything to
have avoided this, but since his hand had been forced it was, perhaps,
as well that Wagram should know all--should know where he stood.
Perhaps the Squire thought the same, for he said no word, gave no sign.
"In the name of God, leave things where they are, man!" conjured the
adventurer in a real outburst of feeling. He was not all bad. He had
got his price, and he felt an intense respect and pity for the man
before him. He would make one more effort. "I tell you nobody's
discredit is involved here. We can't always _know_ everything--it isn't
good for us. As for me, I have pledged my solemn word you shall never
be troubled by me again. Now, let me go."
Still Wagram did not move. He had heard of this man's former visit, but
as his father had not mentioned it to him he himself had kept silence on
the subject. But he had put two and two together, and had connected it
with days of depression under which the old Squire had suffered.
Moreover, it struck him that his father had undergone a subtle change,
had not been quite the same ever since. Now he had come in and found
him in a state of collapse after another interview with this man. His
own name, too, had been brought up, and in such a manner.
"No," he answered; "not yet. This mystery must be cleared up before you
leave this room. I repeat my former question: In what way does my name
require `saving'?"
"Oh, if you will be so obstinate!" answered Develin Hunt excitedly, "you
have only yourself to blame. I've done all I could for you. Since you
_will_ have it, your name--well, it isn't your name."
"Not my name?" repeated Wagram in a strange voice. "Man, are you mad,
or only drunk?"
"Neither," returned the adventurer doggedly. "Well, then, your mother
was married to me before she married your father. She was not to blame.
She thought I was dead. If you don't believe me ask the Squire here."
There was no need to ask the Squire. The old man nodded assent; he was
incapable of speech just then.
"Are you--trying--to make me believe, then, that _you_ are, my father?"
said Wagram in a dry, hardly articulate kind of voice.
"No, no--not for a moment. But, of course, the second marriage was
invalid. Now, do you take in the position?"
"Yes."
Wagram's face had gone livid and his tall form seemed to sway. No
further word would come. But for the set, gleaming stare of the eyes he
might have been a corpse trying to stand upright. The sight was awful,
indescribably so. Even the hard, unscrupulous adventurer was moved to
concern and compunction.
"For God's sake, don't take it like this," he adjured. "Pull yourself
together, man. The thing is a secret between us three, and need never
be anything else. Send for a big tot of brandy, or something to steady
your nerves. It's a facer, but nothing need come of it."
For answer Wagram only shook his head, and moved unsteadily to the open
window, where he stood, looking out. There was nothing to prevent
Develin Hunt walking out of the house with his 25,000 pound cheque in
his pocket; and, to do him justice, it was not the thought that this
might be stopped by telegram that restrained him. Yet he did not so
walk out.