"No, George," he said, in a voice that dropped almost to a whisper. "You are too fond of life for that. Suppose for a moment, just suppose, they had means of taking you back to France. Just suppose there was a boat in the harbor now, manned and victualled and waiting for the tide, with a cabin ready and irons. They would admire to see you back in Paris, George, for a day, or perhaps two days. I know, George. They have told me."
"Positively," said my father, stifling a yawn behind his hand, "positively you frighten me. It is an old sensation and tires me. Surely you can be more interesting."
Jason's face, red and good-natured always, became a trifle redder.
"We have beat about the bush long enough," he said, with an abrupt lack of suavity. "I tell you, once and for all, you are running against forces which are too strong for you—forces, as I have pointed out, that will do anything to gain possession of a certain paper. They know you have that paper, George."
My father shrugged his shoulders.
"Indeed?" he said. "I hardly admire their perspicacity."
"And they will prevent your disposing of it at any cost. I tell you, George, they will stop at nothing—" again his voice dropped to a confidential monotone—"and that is why I'm here, George," my uncle concluded.
My father raised his eyebrows.
"I fear my mind works slowly in the early morning. Pardon me, if I still must ask—Why are you here?"
Quite suddenly my uncle's patience gave way in a singular manner to exasperation, exposing a side to his character which I had not till then suspected.