“Good lad!” he cried, his eye brightening. “The most sensible thing thou hast said in twenty-four hours. 'Twill be a recreation for myself to help,” and he buttoned his waistcoat.
“We can surely devise some means of breaking out if——”
“We!” he repeated, shaking his head. “No, no, Paul, thou hast too risky a task before thee to burden thyself with behemoth. Shalt escape by thyself and a blessing with thee, but as for Father Hamilton he knows when he is well-off, and he shall not stir a step out of Buhot's charming and commodious inn until the bill is presented.”
In vain I protested that I should not dream of leaving him there while I took flight; he would listen to none of my reasoning, and for that day at least I abandoned the project.
Next day Buhot helped me to a different conclusion, for I was summoned before him.
“Well, Monsieur,” he said, “is it that we have here a more discerning young gentleman than I had the honour to meet last time?”
“Just the very same, M. Buhot,” said I bluntly. He chewed the stump of his pen and shrugged his shoulders.
“Come, come, M. Greig,” he went on, “this is a bêtise of the most ridiculous. We have given you every opportunity of convincing yourself whether this Hamilton is a good man or a bad one, whether he is the tool of others or himself a genius of mischief.”
“The tool of others, certainly, that much I am prepared to tell you, but that you know already. And certainly no genius of mischief himself; man! he has not got the energy to kick a dog.”
“And—and—” said Buhot softly, fancying he had me in the key of revelation.