My father had turned to the fireplace, and was holding the paper over the blaze. But for some reason my uncle was not relieved. He made an ineffectual gesture. His face became a blotched red and white. His eyes grew round and staring, and his mouth fell helplessly open.
"Stop!" he gasped. "For God's sake, George—"
"Stay where you are, Jason," said my father. "I can manage alone, I think.
I suppose I should have burned it long ago."
He withdrew the paper slightly, as if to prolong the scene before him. If my uncle had been on the verge of ruin, he could not have looked more depressed.
"Don't!" he cried. "Will you listen, George? I'll be glad to pay you for it."
My father slowly straightened, placed the paper in his pocket, and bowed.
"Now," he said pleasantly, "we are talking a language I understand. Believe me, Jason, one of my chief motives in keeping this document was the hope that you might realize its intrinsic qualities."
Uncle Jason moistened his lips. His call was evidently proving upsetting.
"How much do you want for it?" he asked, with a slight tremor in his voice.
"Twenty-five thousand dollars seems a fair demand," said my father, "in notes, if you please."