“I can only repeat that I will not,” said the baronet’s guest, gravely.
“Then.... But, oh, for God’s sake, Charley,” said Bendibow, abruptly changing his tone from menace to entreaty, “think of my Tom! You’re a father yourself, you”—
“Let’s have an end of this,” interrupted the other, between compassion and scorn. “You needn’t fear for the boy, nor for yourself either. The papers can never be made public, except by my voluntary act: and it depends solely on you whether that ever becomes necessary. I always carry them upon my person, in a sealed cover, addressed to a friend who, on receiving them, and after taking certain precautions, would probably destroy them. In case of my dying suddenly, therefore, you would suffer no detriment. That’s all I have to say: and now, if you please, we’ll drop the subject.”
“You always carry them about you?” repeated the baronet.
“I have them on me now. Isn’t it getting a little damp out here? My Indian experience makes me cautious.”
“ ’Tis a cloudy night: there’ll be no dew,” said the baronet absently. “What did you say? Yes, certainly, we’ll go into the house. I have some prints I want you to look at. Wait a moment! I say, Charley—it’s all right—it’s all right. I didn’t mean anything. Fact is, my head is not always quite right, I fancy. I get carried away ... damme, I ask your pardon—shake hands with me, Charley!”
He stretched out his hand and grasped the other’s, which he shook hard and mechanically, then letting it go abruptly.
“Life’s a queer business!” he continued with a laugh. “We get pushed into doing things we wouldn’t have believed ourselves capable of: ’tis all circumstances ... fate! As far as I can see, I’m no worse nor better than others. Come in—come into the study. The evening hasn’t begun yet.”
“I must turn homewards. ’Twill be a dark night.”
“Pooh! not a bit of it. Can’t let you off before ten or eleven. And your horse won’t be ready yet. Come now—else I’ll think you bear me a grudge. You’ve had it your own way so far—give me my turn a bit now—eh?”