The list was made out, Paul supervising and hastening the operation.
“You are sure these are all the papers relating to my father?” said Paul, again boring him with steely eyes.
“Certain,” said Sleeman. “They are all there.”
Paul took the list, read it carefully, wrote a few words under it, signed the paper and handed it back. “I shall take these for a few weeks,” he said quietly, making a sheaf of the papers and snapping a rubber band about them. “I shall return them to you in good order.”
“You have no right! You can’t——” began Sleeman, sputtering in his wrath.
Paul rose, put the bundle in his inner pocket. “Why can’t I?” he said. “Do you see any reason? I don’t.” So saying he turned about and left Sleeman standing with his mouth open and in a fury, if the colour of his face gave any indication. At the door he turned and came back to Sleeman.
“You have a new house. Your old house was burned. You know by whom.”
“Yes, I know. The——”
Paul with one stride was close to him. “Stop!” he said, gripping him by the arm. “You are speaking of my father’s wife. You fool! Don’t you know you are trifling with death?”
“My arm!” cried Sleeman. “You are breaking my arm.” Paul flung his arm from him.