Bayre was taken aback. This was an unexpected turn of events, but one which he felt he ought to have been prepared for. As it was, the angry old man certainly appeared to have right on his side as he stood, his face still convulsed with rage, in front of the man who had thus been caught in an attempt at burglarious entry into his premises.
Bayre saw at once that this loose dark dressing-gown, tied round the waist by a frayed cord, was the very garment in which he had seen his uncle groping on the floor of the great hall on the first day of his investigations; the old man shivered as he stood, slippered and hatless, with his lank and sparse grey locks ruffled by the night wind, clutching at the sides of his collar and holding them together against his lean throat.
“What do you want here? What do you want?” croaked out he, after a pause of a few moments, during which his nephew reflected upon the answer he should give to his accuser.
“I want,” cried young Bayre, boldly, suddenly resolving on the bold course of telling the whole truth without disguise, “to know who the woman is that you have shut up in your house.”
To his surprise, the whole demeanour of the old man changed at once. The convulsive twitchings of his features gave place to a sudden calmness, while he peered into the face of the younger man with a sly intentness which prepared the other for the fact that he had a crafty antagonist to deal with.
Coming quite close to young Bayre, and staring up into his face with the lantern held high enough for them to see clearly into each other’s eyes, he croaked out, in a jeering voice,—
“What’s that to you?”
Young Bayre was thunderstruck. He was prepared for denial, for indignation, for a torrent of abuse. But this cynical speech, which he took for an avowal, struck him dumb. The old man saw his advantage, and went quietly on, in the same aggressive, jibing tone,—
“What business is it of yours if I keep half a dozen women shut up in my house, eh? Are you the master of my house, or the head of my family, that you should interfere with me? If you’ve found a mare’s nest, my friend, don’t come here straining your precious eyes by looking through brick walls and wooden doors, but go to the police, go, go, go.” And with each insulting repetition of the word the old man thrust a skinny finger into his face. “And lay information against me, me, me, master of Creux and benefactor to my neighbours! Say that you, a stranger, a distant relation of the man whose property you covet—”
“I do not covet your property. I’ve never asked you for a shilling!” cried Bayre, hotly.