“It was hardly the right thing to do, you know, although perhaps clever; you have the reputation for being a very clever man you know, Mr. Barton,” and Prescott paused again, but Barton did not speak, although Prescott could see that his lips moved, as if he was muttering a deep oath, and drops of perspiration stood on his forehead. “Still, you see, Barton, even very clever men make a mistake sometimes. A waiting game pays sometimes, but, perhaps, more often it does not.”
The detective could stand it no longer, but burst out with a fearful imprecation.
“——what are you driving at?”
“Only at this, Mr. Barton,” Prescott went on composedly, “that when you forgot to tell Captain Bradshaw that his grandson was alive,”—the man uttered an exclamation, which was almost a groan, but Prescott, without heeding him, continued,—“alive and well, and allowed him to remain all these years in ignorance of it—with the intention, of course, of extorting a very large sum from the boy when he came of age, for the knowledge of his birth—it would have been wiser to have assured yourself that the mother had left no sign, no little valuables, such as seals with crests, and so on, which might lead to the discovery of the mother without your kind interference. It was not likely, of course, but it turned out so, and the lad is now at his grandfather’s house as his acknowledged and recognised heir.”
The detective listened in stupefied silence. This utter overthrow of all he had schemed for for so many years completely crushed him. For a moment he thought of the document he held from Fred Bingham, then he remembered that it was expressly voided by the appearance of the heir. Then he sat for a time with his forehead on his hand, thinking deeply, Prescott quietly watching him all the time. At last he said,
“Well, Barton, what do you make of it?”
“I make this,” the man said doggedly; “that the boy may or may not be his grandson, but he has no proof whatever of it. The woman who died at the Holls’ may have stolen the things, or they may have been given to her by the other. You have no proof—even if you knew that it was his daughter, which you don’t—that the child was hers; and you have no proof that his parents were ever married, even if you could prove the other points.”
“We have not,” Prescott said, frankly, “and it is precisely for that reason that I come to you. Of course you have got all these proofs, and I want you to furnish them to us.”
“And how much do you propose to give for them?” Barton asked cautiously. “I have waited for twenty years, and I won’t give up the game for a trifle.”
“Captain Bradshaw is so angry at the manner in which you have deceived him that he will not give one farthing.”