"Possibly," I agreed. "Yet, in your conversation with Mr. Lawton you stated that you had given your word not to surrender this paper. My question is—how can you reconcile this with your present intentions?"
For almost the only time I can remember, my father seemed puzzled for an answer. He started to speak, and shook his head—drew out his handkerchief and passed it over his lips.
"Circumstances alter even principles," he answered finally, "and this, my son, is one of the circumstances. Brutus, the boy has been trying to get me drunk long enough. Show him to his bedroom, and bring me my cloak and pistols."
Brutus lifted one of the candlesticks, grinned at me, and nodded.
"A very good night to you, Henry," said my father tranquilly.
I bowed to him with courtesy which perhaps was intuitive.
"Be sure," I told him, "to keep your door locked, father."
"Pray do not worry," he replied. "I have thought out each phase of my visit here too long for anything untoward to happen. Until morning, Henry."
"I am not worrying," I rejoined. "Merely warning you—pardon my incivility, father—but I might grow tired watching you be a bad example. Did you consider that in your plans?"
My father yawned, and placed his feet nearer the coals.