"Commence where you like, only cut it short."
"My father was a Persian; my mother also. They came to England to save their lives. One week longer in Persia, and they would have been slain."
"A pity."
"That they did not remain in their native land? That they were not slain? Perhaps. Who shall say? But there is a fate. Who shall resist it? Safe in England, where I was born a week after their arrival, my parents lived till I was a youth. They imbued me with their spirit. As you see." He waved his hand around. "I live by the art of my pen. That is all."
"Quite enough; it is plain there is no getting anything out of you. Now, listen to me. You accepted a commission from me, which you led me to believe you fulfilled. If it is not fulfilled you practiced a fraud upon me for which the law can punish you."
"I am acquainted with the English law. I have a perception of a higher--the divine law. We will proceed fairly, for you have spoken of a serious business. Many years ago you desired some parchments copied, and, hearing I had some skill with the pen, you sought me out. I performed the work you intrusted to me, and from time to time you favored me with further orders. The engagement ended; you needed my pen no more. But you deemed me worthy to undertake a commission of another nature. You had a friend, or a foe, who was suffering, and whose presence in England was inconvenient to you."
"Lie number one," said Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"It is a true interpretation. You came to me and said, 'This man is dying; I wish his last hours to be peaceful. There are memories here that torture him. Make friends with him. Opium will relieve him; ardent spirits will assuage his pain; travel will beguile his senses. His constitution is broken. Go with him to Paris; I will allow you a small monthly stipend, and, when his pain is over, you shall have a certain sum for your labor.'"
"Lies, and lies, and yet more lies," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, watching Rathbeal's face warily. "You have a fine stock of them, and of all colors and shapes. Why, you would come out first in a competition."
"You compliment me," said Rathbeal, with a gentle smile. "Did those words exist only in my imagination? Yet, as you unfolded your wishes to me, halting and hesitating with a coward's reserve, I thought I heard them spoken. 'Do I know the unfortunate man?' I inquired, 'of whom you are so considerate, toward whom you are so mercifully inclined.' You replied that it was hardly likely, and you mentioned him by name. No, I had never heard of the gentleman. 'I must see him first,' I said, 'before giving you an answer.' You instructed me how to find him, and I sought him out, and made the acquaintance of a being racked with a mortal sorrow. You came to me the following day for an answer; I informed you that you had come too soon, and that I had not decided. 'Be speedy,' you urged. 'I am anxious to get the man out of my sight.'"