“Mere imagination,” he returned, gruffly.
“Yes,” she agreed; “your nature is to plot and intrigue. The deeper, the more stealthy and unsuspected the plot, the more characteristic is it of my subtle parent.”
“True,” he said.
“But here is a condition that puzzles me, as I have remarked. I understand how you won the confidence of the Kanes by posing as generous and unselfish. That was quite like you. But to-day you had them in your power. You might have demanded anything—everything—yet you accepted a mere ten per cent. Now I’m really wondering what your game is.”
It was evident he did not relish his daughter’s criticism, for his usually placid brow bore a heavy frown. Still, he answered lightly:
“You’re stirring too deep; you’re roiling the pot. Why don’t you look on the surface?”
“Oh! how stupid of me,” she said in a relieved voice.
“To be a diverse scoundrel,” announced her father, “is the acme of diabolic art. From complication to simplicity is but a step, yet requires audacity. Most rascals fail to realize that an honest act, by way of contrast, affords more satisfaction than persistent chicanery will produce. We must have variety in our pleasures in order to get the most from them.”
“To be sure,” said Sybil.
“Meantime, you are forgetting your Uncle Burthon.”