It was the end of John Baltazar. He rose, went over to his table and filled his pipe. Anyhow, the House of Baltazar stood firm in honour. He would yet dandle the grandson on his knee. La course du flambeau was the beginning and end of human endeavour. The torch was in Godfrey’s hands now. . . . Feeling for his match-box, his wrist met the hidden papers in his jacket pocket which he had almost forgotten. He drew them out, folded the one fraught with court-martial and disgrace to Godfrey into a long strip and set fire to it, a torch not to be handed on. He lit his pipe with it instead and watched it burn till the flame touched his finger-tips. Then he went over to the grate and burned the love-letter.
He sat down and wrote to Godfrey.
“My dear Boy:
I think you ought to know that I have been as good as my word. Three hours after parting from you, I recovered possession of the document, and this time you may be certain that it no longer exists, for I have myself destroyed it. Your sheet now is clean in this respect, and also in others, if the barrage of silence is maintained.
I cannot possibly tell you how I shall miss you.
Your ever affectionate father,
John Baltazar.”
That was all. Time enough to tell him about China when he had made definite arrangements for the voyage. He prayed anxiously that he might make the announcement in such a way that Godfrey should never self-reproachfully suspect the cause of his exile.
Quong Ho, returning a short while afterwards, found him deeply engaged with the contents of the despatch-case.