ost. I tell you,
George, they will stop at nothing--" again his voice dropped to a
confidential monotone--"and that is why I'm here, George," my uncle
concluded.

My father raised his eyebrows.

"I fear my mind works slowly in the early morning. Pardon me, if I still
must ask--Why are you here?"

Quite suddenly my uncle's patience gave way in a singular manner to
exasperation, exposing a side to his character which I had not till then
suspected.

"Because I can save your neck, that's why! Though, God knows, you don't
seem to value it. I have interceded for you, George, I have come here to
induce you to give up that paper peacefully and quietly, or else to take
the consequences."

Evidently the force he gave his words contrived to drive them home, for
my father nodded.

"You mean," he inquired, "that they propose to take me to France, and
have me handed over to justice, a political prisoner?"

"It is what I meant, George, as a man in a plot to kill Napoleon--" then
his former kindliness returned--"and we cannot let that happen, can we?"

"Not if we can prevent it," my father replied. "If the trouble is that I
have the paper in my possession, I suppose I must let it go."

Uncle Jason smiled his benignest smile.

"I knew you would understand," he said, with something I took for a sigh
of relief. "I told them you were too sensible a man, George, not to
realize when a thing was useless."

My father drew the paper from his breast pocket, and looked at it
thoughtfully.

"Yes," he said slowly. "I suppose I must let it go."

"Good God! What are you doing?" cried my uncle.

My father had turned to the fireplace, and was holding the paper over the
blaze. But for some reason my uncle was not relieved. He made an
ineffectual gesture. His face became a blotched red and white. His eyes
grew round and staring, and his mouth fell helplessly open.

"Stop!" he gasped. "For God's sake, George--"

"Stay where you are, Jason," said my father. "I can manage alone, I think.
I suppose I should have burned it long ago."

He withdrew the paper slightly, as if to prolong the scene before him. If
my uncle had been on the verge of ruin, he could not have looked more
depressed.

"Don't!" he cried. "Will you listen, George? I'll be glad to pay
you for it."

My father slowly straightened, placed the paper in his pocket,
and bowed.

"Now," he said pleasantly, "we are talking a language I understand.
Believe me, Jason, one of