sighed. "I am growing old, my son. I
know my horse spoiled my aim, and yet he fell, and I rode over him. I
had hoped to be finished with your Uncle Jason. You say he entered
the house?"

"And told me to stop," I said.

"And you did not?"

"No," I replied. "I succeeded in getting out of a window also."

And then, although I could not see him, I knew he had undergone a
change, and I knew that I was facing a different man.

His hand fell on my shoulder, and to my surprise, it was trembling.

"God!" he cried, in a voice that was suddenly harsh and forbidding. "Do
you mean to tell me you left Mademoiselle, and never struck a blow? You
left her there?"

"Not entirely," I replied.

My father became very gentle.

"Will you be done with this?" he said, "The lady, where is she now?"

And then, half to himself he added.

"How was I to know they would break in the house after I had gone?"

"Mademoiselle," I replied, "is not fifteen feet away."

His hand went up to the clasp of his cloak, and again his voice became
pleasantly conversational.

"Ah, that is better," said my father. "And so you got the paper after
all. Yes, I am growing old, my son. I appear to have bungled badly. Do
you hope to keep the paper?"

In the distance I heard a voice again, raised in a shout. Surely he
understood.

"They are coming," I said. "Yes, I intend to keep the paper."

"Indeed?" said my father. "Perhaps you will explain how, my son. I have
had an active evening, but you--I confess you go quite ahead of me."

"Because," I said, "you are not anxious to go back to France, father, and
you are almost on your way there."

"No, not to France," he answered, and I knew he saw my meaning.

"And yet they are coming to take you. If you so much as offer to touch me
again, I shall call them, father, and we shall go back together. Your
horse is tired. He cannot go much further."

He was silent for a moment, and I prudently stepped back.

"You might shoot me, of course," I added, "but a pistol shot would be
equally good. Listen! I can hear them on the road."

But oddly enough, he was not disturbed.

"On the road, to be sure," said my father. "You are right, Henry, you may
keep the paper. But tell me one thing more. Was there no one here when
you arrived?"

"There was," I said, "but I sent him away--to our house, father."

He sighed and smoothed his cloak thoughtfully.

"I fear that I have become quite hopeless. As you say, if I fire