On my father's face came something closer to blank astonishment than I had ever seen there. Something in the situation was puzzling him, and for the moment he seemed unable to cope with it.
"Lawton," he said slowly, "shuffle those cards, or I'll shoot you where you stand."
Mr. Lawton placed the cards on the table, and adjusted them thoughtfully.
"No, you won't," he replied. "I know you better than that. You would never draw a weapon on any man unless he had an equal chance, and I haven't, Shelton."
I had stepped forward beside him. Was there someone else at the bottom of the whole wretched business? Was it possible that my father had no hand in it? A glance at Mr. Lawton answered a half a hundred questions which were darting through my mind.
And my father was still staring in a baffled way, eyeing Mr. Lawton in silent wonder.
"So," he said, "you think I'll forgive you? Is it possible you are relying on my Christian spirit?"
"No," said Mr. Lawton, "I do not ask you to forgive me. I am saying I have stopped. That is all—stopped, do you understand me? I should nave stopped when Jason commissioned me to kill your son. I should have, if this affair with France was not beginning. Even then the business sickened me. What did I care about the money he stole from her? I did not want her money. What did I care if the boy suspected you had not stolen it, but that Jason had it all the time? I couldn't have killed him, because he had some slight glimmerings of sense."
A dozen dim suspicions clashed suddenly together into fact. I looked sharply at my father. He was nodding, with some faint suspicion of amusement.
"And so you did not," he said gently. "Your scruples do you credit, after all."