“Stop!” thundered the Consul. “I tell you I won’t listen to you!”
The rebuff was most embarrassing. Ignorant as to how he had offended the Consul, and uncertain as to whether the Consul had not offended him, Roddy helplessly rubbed his handkerchief over his perplexed and perspiring countenance. He wondered if, as a conspirator, he had not been lacking in finesse, if he had not been too communicative.
In the corner of the room, in a tin cage, a great green parrot, with its head cocked on one side, had been regarding Roddy with mocking, malevolent eyes. Now, to further add to his discomfiture, it suddenly emitted a chuckle, human and contemptuous. As though choking with hidden laughter, the bird gurgled feebly, “Polly, Polly.” And then, in a tone of stern disapproval, added briskly, “You talk too much!” At this flank attack Roddy flushed indignantly. He began to wish he had brought Peter with him, to give him the proper signals.
With his hands clinched behind him, and tossing his white beard from side to side, the Consul paced the room.
“So that is it!” he muttered. “That is why he left Paris. That explains the Restaurador. Of course,” he added indignantly as he passed Roddy, throwing the words at him over his shoulder, “that is where the money came from!”
Roddy, now thoroughly exasperated, protested warmly: “Look here,” he cried, “if you aren’t careful you’ll tell me something you don’t want me to know.”
The Consul came to an instant pause. From his great height he stood staring at his visitor, the placid depths of his blue eyes glowering with doubt and excitement.
“I give you my word,” continued Roddy sulkily, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” demanded the old man truculently, “that you are not Mr. Forrester’s son?”
“Certainly I am his son,” cried Roddy.