"It was just as well," said Mr. Lawton. "I thought the news your son was attacked would fetch you over. Jason did his best to hush it up, but I knew you would suspect. And you know what it would have meant to me if I could have sent you back to France."
And yet, for some reason, my father was strangely ill at ease. Like someone detected in a falsehood, he looked restlessly about him. For the moment his adroitness seemed to have left him. He made a helpless little gesture of annoyance.
"You say you have stopped?" inquired my father. "Then why not do so, Lawton, and stop talking. Do you think what you say interests me? Do you think I do not know the whole damnable business, without your raking it up again? Why should Jason have wished to be rid of me except for her money? Why should you have helped him, except—At least it was not for money, Lawton."
But Mr. Lawton did not heed my father's voice. His glance had come to rest again upon the locket on the table, and the hard lines about his mouth had vanished.
"And she never spoke to me, never looked at me again," he said.
My father started and looked at him quickly.
"Lawton," groaned my uncle, "are you out of your mind?"
Mr. Lawton turned sharp around and faced him with a scowl.
"I told you," he said harshly. "I told you to get me the paper, and I told you what would happen if you did not, and it is happening already, Jason. I am going to tell the story."
My uncle moved convulsively to his feet, and his voice was sharp and malignant.