Gordon flung back in his chair with a great laugh. But his father's eyes still maintained their irony.
"Say, I'm sort of sorry talking that way now. There's other things." Gordon fumbled in his pocket while he went on. "Slosson? Why Slosson's trying to stave off pneumonia in a disused, perforated shack way up on Mallinsbee's ranch. He's a skunk of a man anyway, and I had to let him know I thought that way. I haven't heard about the pneumonia yet, but if he got it I don't guess it would give me nightmare." Then he handed across a small volume in morocco binding which he had taken from his pocket. "I don't seem to think you'll need much explanation about the other. That's your code book, which I forgot to return in the hurry of quitting New York."
The millionaire turned the cover, closed it again, and quietly bestowed it in his pocket.
"Guess I'll keep this," he said without emotion. "Yes, it tells me a lot. It tells me I've credited Mallinsbee and his crowd with the work of my son. It tells me that my own son is solely responsible for the idea, and execution, of rolling his father on this land deal. It tells me that the principles of big finance must have a fertile resting place somewhere in my son. Well, there's quite a lot of time before daylight."
It had been an anxious moment for Gordon when he handed back the private code book, and he had watched his father closely. He was seeking any sign of anger, or regret, or even pain, as his own actions became apparent to the other. There were no such signs. There was only that non-committal half smile, and it left him still uncertain.
His father's patience seemed inexhaustible. Had Gordon only realized it this was the very sign he should have looked for in such a man. James Carbhoy loved his son as few men regard their offspring, but he wanted his son to be something more than a mere object of his affection. He wanted him to be an object upon which he could bestow all the enormous pride of a self-made man. He wanted to feel that exquisite thrill of triumph resulting to his vanity, that Gordon was his son—the son of his father.
"Yes, there's quite a while before daylight, Dad, and I'm glad." Gordon ran his fingers through his hair. "So I'd better hand it you from the beginning. I want you to get a right understanding of my motives. It was opportunity. That thing you've always taught me fools most always try to dodge, and most good men generally miss."
His father nodded and Gordon settled himself afresh in his chair.
"Yes, I'm in this thing, Dad," he went on, after the briefest of pauses. "In it right up to my neck," he added, with a whimsical smile. "It was the opportunity I needed to make good. Being neither a fool nor a good man I took it, and now I sit with a wad of one hundred and five thousand dollars in good United States currency. It's here in my pocket, and I'm ready to hand it over to you in payment for those old debts. You will observe I have still eight weeks of my six months to run. I want to say, as you'll no doubt agree when you've heard my story, that I've made, or acquired it, through graft and piracy, such as I talked about to you awhile back, and, as far as I can see, my method has been as completely dishonest as an honest man could adopt. Dad, I've always regarded your sense of humor as one of your greatest attributes, but whether it'll stand for the way I've treated you, even with my intimate knowledge of you, I'm not prepared to guess. This is the yarn."
Gordon plunged into the story without further preamble while his father sat and smoked on with that half smile still fixed in his gray eyes. The younger man watched the still, inscrutable, sphinx-like figure with eyes of grave speculation. He missed no detail in the story of his irresponsibility and haphazard adventure. He started at the moment when he booked his passage for Seattle, and carried it on right down to the melodramatic moment when he burst into that parlor to rescue the girl he loved from a peril which he knew had never threatened her. He told it all with a detail that spared neither himself, nor the confidential agent Slosson, nor any one else concerned. He showed up the spirit of graft which actuated every step of his progress, and did not hesitate to apply the lash with merciless force upon the railroad organization his father controlled.