The Unspeakable Gentleman Part 12

My father tapped his silver snuff box gently.

"I had hoped as much," he remarked blandly. "When one is the center of interest, it is always better to be the very center. You must learn to know me better, Jason, and then you will understand that I always seek two things. I always seek profit and pleasure. It seems as though I should find them both in such pleasant company."

Then, as if the matter were settled, he looked again at the shuttered window, and leaned down to place another log in the fire.

"Come, George," urged my uncle. "Let us be serious. Your nonchalance and irony have been growing with the years. Surely you recognize that you have reached the end of your rope. I tell you, George, these men will stop at nothing."

"Has it ever occurred to you," returned my father, "that I also, may stop at nothing?"

My uncle frowned, and then smiled bleakly.

"No, George," he said, in a voice that dropped almost to a whisper.

"You are too fond of life for that. Suppose for a moment, just suppose, they had means of taking you back to France. Just suppose there was a boat in the harbor now, manned and victualled and waiting for the tide, with a cabin ready and irons. They would admire to see you back in Paris, George, for a day, or perhaps two days. I know, George. They have told me."

"Positively," said my father, stifling a yawn behind his hand, "positively you frighten me. It is an old sensation and tires me. Surely you can be more interesting."

Jason's face, red and good-natured always, became a trifle redder.

"We have beat about the bush long enough," he said, with an abrupt lack of suavity. "I tell you, once and for all, you are running against forces which are too strong for you--forces, as I have pointed out, that will do anything to gain possession of a certain paper. They know you have that paper, George."

My father shrugged his shoulders.

"Indeed?" he said. "I hardly admire their perspicacity."

"And they will prevent your disposing of it at any cost. I tell you, George, they will stop at nothing--" again his voice dropped to a confidential monotone--"and that is why I'm here, George," my uncle concluded.

My father raised his eyebrows.

"I fear my mind works slowly in the early morning. Pardon me, if I still must ask--Why are you here?"

Quite suddenly my uncle's patience gave way in a singular manner to exasperation, exposing a side to his character which I had not till then suspected.

"Because I can save your neck, that's why! Though, G.o.d knows, you don't seem to value it. I have interceded for you, George, I have come here to induce you to give up that paper peacefully and quietly, or else to take the consequences."

Evidently the force he gave his words contrived to drive them home, for my father nodded.

"You mean," he inquired, "that they propose to take me to France, and have me handed over to justice, a political prisoner?"

"It is what I meant, George, as a man in a plot to kill Napoleon--" then his former kindliness returned--"and we cannot let that happen, can we?"

"Not if we can prevent it," my father replied. "If the trouble is that I have the paper in my possession, I suppose I must let it go."

Uncle Jason smiled his benignest smile.

"I knew you would understand," he said, with something I took for a sigh of relief. "I told them you were too sensible a man, George, not to realize when a thing was useless."

My father drew the paper from his breast pocket, and looked at it thoughtfully.

"Yes," he said slowly. "I suppose I must let it go."

"Good G.o.d! What are you doing?" cried my uncle.

My father had turned to the fireplace, and was holding the paper over the blaze. But for some reason my uncle was not relieved. He made an ineffectual gesture. His face became a blotched red and white. His eyes grew round and staring, and his mouth fell helplessly open.

"Stop!" he gasped. "For G.o.d's sake, George--"

"Stay where you are, Jason," said my father. "I can manage alone, I think.

I suppose I should have burned it long ago."

He withdrew the paper slightly, as if to prolong the scene before him. If my uncle had been on the verge of ruin, he could not have looked more depressed.

"Don't!" he cried. "Will you listen, George? I'll be glad to pay you for it."

My father slowly straightened, placed the paper in his pocket, and bowed.

"Now," he said pleasantly, "we are talking a language I understand.

Believe me, Jason, one of my chief motives in keeping this doc.u.ment was the hope that you might realize its intrinsic qualities."

Uncle Jason moistened his lips. His call was evidently proving upsetting.

"How much do you want for it?" he asked, with a slight tremor in his voice.

"Twenty-five thousand dollars seems a fair demand," said my father, "in notes, if you please."

"What!" my uncle shouted.

My father seated himself on the edge of the table, and surveyed his visitor intently.

"Be silent," he said. "Silent and very careful, Jason. You seem to forget that I am a dangerous man." And he flicked an imaginary bit of dust from his cuff. My uncle gave a hasty glance at the half opened door.

"And now listen to me," my father continued, his voice still gently conversational. "You have tried to frighten me, Jason. You should have known better. Of all the people in the world I fear you least. You forget that I am growing old, and all my senses are becoming duller--fear along with the rest. You have tried to cheat me of the money I have demanded, and it has tried my patience. In fact, it has set my nerves quite on edge. Pray do not irritate me again. I know you must have that paper, and I know why. The price I offer is a moderate one compared with the unpleasantness that may occur to you if you do not get it. Never mind what occurrence. I know that you have come here prepared to pay that price. The morning is getting on. You have the money in your inside pocket. Bring it out and count it--twenty-five thousand dollars."

Hesitatingly my uncle produced a packet that crackled pleasantly.

"There! I said you had them," remarked my father serenely. "All perfectly negotiable I hope, Jason, in case you should change your mind."

I stood helplessly beside him, beset with a hundred useless impulses.

Silently I watched Jason Hill hold out the notes.

"And now the paper," said my uncle.

My father, examining the packet with a minute care, waved his request aside.

"First you must let me see what you are giving me. I fear your hands are trembling too much, Jason, for you to do justice to it. Twenty-five thousand dollars! It seems to me I remember that a similar sum once pa.s.sed between us. In which direction? seem to have forgotten--Yes, strangely enough they are quite correct. A modest little fortune, but still something to fall back on."

"And now the paper!" demanded my uncle.

"Ah, to be sure, the paper," said my father, and he swung from the table where he had been sitting, and smiled brightly.