‘And her cargo—valuable cargo it was,’ continued Rodley, actually smiling with enjoyment at the misery he was causing—‘her cargo was recovered.’
The old man rose and hobbled about the room in a state of pitiable agony. ‘How do you know?’ he asked desperately.
‘The last time I met you,’ replied Rodley, ‘you were so startled that you dropped something—this.’ He put his hand into his pocket and drew out a sovereign.
‘What do you infer from that?’
‘Why, what’s the use of asking me what I infer? What’s the most natural inference I should draw?’
The captain resumed his seat, and was silent for some minutes. In the meanwhile, Rodley filled another pipe and mixed himself a glass of grog.
At length the old man said: ‘I understand the case to be this. You want to marry my daughter. If I refuse, you’ll’——
‘I will expose you as having taken property which does not belong to you,’ replied Rodley.
‘You must prove it,’ cried the captain. ‘Why shouldn’t I keep my money where I think fit? This is a lonely house, in a dangerous neighbourhood; the folk all about are desperate men—wreckers, smugglers, old privateersmen, escaped pressed-men—men who, if they thought I kept money and valuables on the premises, would not hesitate to rob me; and what could we, a lame old man and a young girl, do to protect ourselves?’
‘I can prove it,’ continued Rodley quietly. ‘But I’m not such a fool as to tell you how I can prove it. Look here; we need not waste words over it. You are in my power; you cannot escape. The price I put upon keeping silence upon a matter which would bring you into the felon’s dock, is the hand of your daughter Bertha. I give you a week to decide, for the matter presses, and I do not intend to remain longer than I can help at Saint Quinians.’