"Josephus is a square-toes." Very likely. The prodigal Bob was not. Quite the contrary—he was a young man of extremely mercurial temperament. "Josephus, my cousin, that he will ... 'nd the safe the bundle." He put down the paper, and without waking the old man he softly left the room and the place, shutting the door behind him; and then he forgot immediately the torn letter and its allusion to Josephus. He thought next that he would go to Bunker and put the question directly to him. The man might be terrified—might show confusion—might tell lies. That would matter little; but if he showed his hand too soon Bunker might be put upon his guard. Well, that mattered little—what Harry hoped was, rather to get at the truth than to recover his houses.
"I want," he said, finding his uncle at home, and engaged in his office drawing up bills—"I want a few words of serious talk with you, my uncle."
"I am busy; go away—I never want to talk to you. I hate the very sight of your face."
He looked indeed as if he did—if a flushing cheek and an angry glare of the eyes are any sign.
"I am not going away until you have answered my questions. As to your hatred or your affection, that does not concern me at all. Now will you listen, or shall I wait?"
"To get rid of you the sooner," growled Bunker, "I will listen now. If I was twenty years younger I'd kick you out."
"If you were twenty years younger, there might, it is true, be a fight. Now then?"
"Well, get along—my time is valuable."
"I have several times asked you what you got for me when you sold me. You have on those occasions allowed yourself to fall into a rage, which is really dangerous in so stout a man. I am not going to ask you that question any more."