George Masson gasped. Here was a new turn of affairs. But he set his teeth.
“Twenty thousand dollars—think of that!” he sneered angrily.
“That is what I said, monsieur. I said I could save you money, and money saved is money earned. I am your benefactor, if you will but permit me to be so, monsieur. I would save you from the law, and from the damages which the law gives. Can you not guess what would be given in a court of the Catholic province of Quebec, against the violation of a good man’s home? Do you not see that the business is urgent?”
“Not at all,” curtly replied the master-carpenter. M. Fille bridled up, and his spare figure seemed to gain courage and dignity.
“If you think I will hold my peace unless you give your sacred pledge, you are mistaken, monsieur. I am no meddler, but I have had much kindness at the hands of Monsieur and Madame Barbille, and I will do what I can to protect them and their daughter—that good and sweet daughter, from the machinations, corruptions and malfeasance—”
“Three damn good words for the Court, bagosh!” exclaimed Masson with a jeer.
“No, with a man devoid of honour, I shall not hesitate, for the Manor Cartier has been the home of domestic peace, and madame, who came to us a stranger, deserves well of the people of that ancient abode of chivalry-the chivalry of France.”
“When we are wound up, what a humming we can make!” laughed George Masson sourly. “Have you quite finished, m’sieu’?”
“The matter is urgent, you will admit, monsieur?” again demanded M. Fille with austerity.
“Not at all.”