Daniel leant forward and drew a long, type-written letter from his pocket. “This,” he said, “is a copy of your father’s last letter to me.”
“If he promised you any money,” the other interjected, “you won’t get it.”
Daniel took no notice. “I won’t trouble you with the first pages of the letter,” he remarked. “They just tell an old man’s disappointment in his son, and his fears that you will not only ruin yourself, but also sully the name and squander the estate. ‘Now, Daniel,’ he writes, ‘I am going to put the matter entirely into your hands, and to rely on your honour to carry out my wishes. In spite of my son’s shortcomings I love him for his mother’s sake, and it is my earnest desire that he should be a worthy representative of our line. If, however, you find that he is hopelessly going to the bad, I herewith place the documentary evidence in your hands by means of which you can turn him out in favour of yourself.’”
“What’s he mean?” exclaimed his cousin, half rising from his chair. “It’s forgery—it’s a trick or something!” His voice was unsteady.
Daniel, pipe in mouth, continued quietly to read: “‘I regret to say that, as these papers will show, my son was born out of wedlock. You are aware, no doubt, that I met my wife in South Africa, when I had a farm there, some years before I even expected to come into the title; but, except you and I, no living person knows that Charles was born six months before our marriage. I now leave the secret entirely in your discretion, knowing that you will only reveal it if you feel that I should wish you to do so.’”
“It’s a lie!” shouted Lord Barthampton. “It’s blackmail!”
“No,” said Daniel. “There’s no getting over it. The documents are all in order. You’re only Lord Barthampton on sufferance.”
His cousin sank back in his chair. His cigar had gone out, and he flung it on the ground. Then he leant forward and rested his head in his hands, scratching his red ear with one finger. In this attitude he appeared fat, unpleasant, and altogether devoid of dignity.
At length he looked up, sullenly, with a sort of cunning in his face. “How much do you want for those papers?” he asked.
Daniel sucked at his pipe for a few moments. “I want rather a stiff price,” he declared at length.