“He was a bit wild in his youth, but would become a model husband. I know that type of man well. At fifty he would be taking the chair at rescue meetings.”
Again Power remained silent, and Marten was obliged to reopen the discussion.
“I’ll get rid of Montecastello,” he said, and his voice had the metallic rasp of a file in it. “I’ll undertake, too, that my daughter shall be free to marry Philip Lindsay, or any other man of her choice. I suppose it will be Lindsay. I’ll invite him here, and make up for my rather emphatic dismissal the other day. But if you impose terms, so do I. To avoid a scandal, to keep my daughter’s love during the remaining years of my life, I yield to you on the major point. On my side, I stipulate that not one penny of your money goes to either Lindsay or Nancy. They must owe everything to me, not to you. Further, you must undertake to go out of my daughter’s life completely. You have contrived to do that in the past; you must manage it in the future as well.”
“You mean that I am never voluntarily to see or speak to her again?”
“Yes.”
“I promise that.”
Power spoke in a low tone, but a note of unutterable sadness crept into the words. Even his bitter and resentful hearer caught some hint of anguish, of final abandonment, of a dream that was dispelled.
“Now, about these papers,” he said, striving to assume a business-like air. “I shall write to Mowlem & Son telling them that the Willard trust has attained its object. Sometime I shall endeavor personally to get them to hand over any document in their possession. They are only agents. They can be bought. As to these,” and he tapped the sheets in Power’s handwriting, “I shall keep them until you have carried out your share of the deal.”
“Better not. You may die suddenly. Then they would be found.”
“Die, may I? And what about you?”