“That is my seal,” he observed, “with my family crest. What of it?”
“What of it?” shouted David. “Why, it’s the thing that was used to sign that damned contract. It’s proof positive. That’s what it is!”
“My client,” said Jarvis coolly, “did not wish to use his own name. I suggested the seal. He used it—at my request.”
“Well, you’re the man, anyway,” David retorted violently. “I insist that you release her—at once. Do you hear? At once!”
“So that she can be free to marry you?” Jarvis asked. His eyes were fixed and glittered strangely.
“Yes! Why not? She’s my promised wife.”
Jarvis stood silent for a long minute, as if considering David’s words. Then he looked up, moving a little toward the door with the manifest intention of bringing the unfruitful interview to an end.
“I cannot say more at present than that I will endeavor to so arrange matters with my client as to meet Miss Preston’s wishes,” he said.
He looked calmly, dispassionately at David, and again the young man felt himself vaguely humiliated. He had meant to say more, much more; but quite unexpectedly he found himself bidding Jarvis good-night. The door closed quietly upon his wrath and discomfiture.
Stephen Jarvis did not at once resume the reading of the thin blue volume which lay face down in the bright circle of lamp-light. Instead he walked slowly up and down the room, his brows knit, his sinewy hands locked behind him. He was trying as conscientiously as possible to look at the situation from the view-point of the young man; to find, if possible, in his own conduct some valid excuse for the (to him) intolerable behavior of Whitcomb. While he yet strove with himself a second visitor was announced.