“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.”