"Because I can save your neck, that's why! Though, God knows, you don't seem to value it. I have interceded for you, George, I have come here to induce you to give up that paper peacefully and quietly, or else to take the consequences."
Evidently the force he gave his words contrived to drive them home, for my father nodded.
"You mean," he inquired, "that they propose to take me to France, and have me handed over to justice, a political prisoner?"
"It is what I meant, George, as a man in a plot to kill Napoleon—" then his former kindliness returned—"and we cannot let that happen, can we?"
"Not if we can prevent it," my father replied. "If the trouble is that I have the paper in my possession, I suppose I must let it go."
Uncle Jason smiled his benignest smile.
"I knew you would understand," he said, with something I took for a sigh of relief. "I told them you were too sensible a man, George, not to realize when a thing was useless."
My father drew the paper from his breast pocket, and looked at it thoughtfully.
"Yes," he said slowly. "I suppose I must let it go."
"Good God! What are you doing?" cried my uncle.