“Do you suppose I’m able to restrain the lad?”
“You ought to be,” Lisle answered coolly. “It’s your friend Batley who’s leading him on to ruin; I’m making no comments on your conduct in standing by and watching, as if you approved of it.”
The man grew hot with anger.
“Thank you for your consideration.” His tone changed to a sneer. “I suppose you couldn’t be expected to realize that the attitude you’re adopting is inexcusable?”
“If you don’t like it, I’ll try another,” Lisle returned curtly. “You’ll give Batley his orders to leave the lad alone right now.”
Gladwyne rose with his utmost dignity, a fine gentleman whose feelings had been outraged by the coarse attack of a barbarian; but Lisle waved his hand in a contemptuous manner.
“Stop where you are; that kind of thing is thrown away on me. You’re going to listen for a few minutes and afterward you’re going to do what I tell you. To begin with—why, after you’d opened it, didn’t you wipe out all trace of the cache on the reach below the last portage your cousin made?”
The shot obviously reached its mark, for Gladwyne clutched the table hard, and then sank back limply into his seat. He further betrayed himself by a swift, instinctive glance toward the rows of books behind him, and Lisle had no doubt that the missing pages from George Gladwyne’s diary were hidden among them. He waited calmly, sure of his position, while Gladwyne with difficulty pulled himself together.
“Have you any proof that I found the cache?” he asked.
“I think so,” Lisle informed him. “But we’ll let that slide. You’d better take the thing for granted. I’m not here to answer questions. I’ve told you plainly what I want.”