“Or at my hands! I compliment you, nephew, on your wit. Or at the hands of Blunt, or Barwise? This old man so near to dying or to dotage, nephew! I put this to you.”
“Why, I’d suffer no more,” said I, “than Mr. Bradbury would speedily call you to account for.”
“A lonely house,” he muttered, “so near the coast. And none save old Sir Gavin within miles of us. Should we not work our will with you, and set our fingers on what’s hid in the house, and be away—in France, or whither in the world we would—ere Bradbury might lift a finger.”
“What’s hid in the house!” I repeated.
With sudden impatience he cried out, “Ay, what’s hid in the house! Why not be frank with me, nephew? You know this—Bradbury knows, as I—there’s in this house more than a moiety of all my father ever took on his voyages. There’s treasure in this house, about this house; and one man knows where it is hidden. And one man knows, and this one man may die, or his mind grow dark, and he forget, and it never be known. You know of the existence of this treasure, nephew, this secret hoard of his—and yet you lie to me!”
Unguardedly I answered, “I’ve heard no more than a talk of the treasure.”
“When? From whom?” he took me up instantly, and his face was livid, and his eyes were two evil gems. “This morn! Surely you heard this morn. Talk near the wall there. Or do you know from him?”
I said coolly, “I’ll tell you nothing.”
He mastered himself; he lay back on the seat; his lips sneered at me. “I would have made alliance with you, nephew,” he said. “I would have shared with you—as kinsman. I would have offered you security. Ay, I offer it now.”
I answered deliberately, “I’ll have no dealings with you. None!”