He rose and made a movement towards the door. Mr. Drayton put his hand to his forehead; he felt confused; he never now could follow a thought for any time, but his cunning made him anxious to conceal this.
"You can stop," he said, speaking a little thickly, and more slowly. "I have some papers upstairs."
"Let your servant fetch them."
"No; certainly not. I will go myself."
He left the room, and Paul threw up the window, flung out a packet, and closed it again.
Margaret saw the packet fall, but she also saw her husband at the upstairs window; therefore, to the young man's disappointment, she continued walking along, holding her little one's hand, and took no notice.
Mr. Drayton returned, holding some papers in his hands.
"What did you open the window for?" he asked, and Paul saw that his suspicions were again aroused.
"Open the window!" he answered, with great presence of mind. "My dear Mr. Drayton, if you said that to any one else you would be accused of having delusions!"
Mr. Drayton glared at him, and said no more. Paul took the papers and glanced them over; they were lists in Mr. Drayton's own handwriting; and lists no sane man would have written. Here and there a number put down, and a long rambling note about some one supposed to have injured him; remarks about a man who took various shapes, and who made fiendish faces at him; and things of that sort.