“Wretch!” leaped to Mr. Sylvester’s lips, but he did not speak it. “His friends,” declared he, “have most certainly a great interest in his reputation and his happiness; but they never will pay anything upon coercion to preserve the one or to insure the other.”
“They won’t!” And for the first time Roger Holt slightly quavered.
“A man’s honor and happiness are much, and he will struggle long before he will consent to part from them. But a citizen of a great town like this, owes something to his fellows, and submitting to blackmail is but a poor precedent to set. You will have to proceed as you will, Mr. Holt; neither my nephew nor myself, have any money to give you.”
The glare in the man’s eyes was like that of an aroused tiger. “Do you mean to say,” cried he, “that you will not give from your abundance, a paltry thousand dollars to save one of your blood from a suspicion that will never leave him, never leave him to the end of his miserable days?”
“I mean to say that not one cent will pass from me to you in payment of a silence, which as a gentleman, you ought to feel it incumbent upon you to preserve unasked, if only to prove to your fellow-men that you have not entirely lost all the instincts of the caste to which you once belonged. Not that I look for anything so disinterested from you,” he went on. “A man who could enter the home of a respectable gentleman, and under cover of a brotherly regard, lure into degradation and despair, the woman who was at once its ornament and pride, cannot be expected to practice the virtues of ordinary manhood, much less those of a gentleman and a Christian. He is a wretch, who, whatever his breeding or antecedents, is open to nothing but execration and contempt.”
With an oath and a quick backward spring, Roger Holt cried out, “Who are you, and by what right do you come here to reproach me with a matter dead and buried, by heaven, a dozen years ago?”
“The right of one who, though a stranger, knows well what you are and what you have done. Colonel Japha himself is dead, but the avenger of his honor yet lives! Roger Holt, where is Jacqueline Japha?”
The force with which this was uttered, seemed to confound the man. For a moment he stood silent, his eye upon his guest, then a subtle change took place in his expression; he smiled with a slow devilish meaning, and tossing his head with an airy gesture, lightly remarked:
“You must ask some more constant lover than I. A woman who was charming ten years ago—Bah! what would I be likely to know about her now!”
“Everything, when that woman is Jacqueline Japha,” cried Mr. Sylvester, advancing upon him with a look that would have shaken most men, but which only made the eye of this one burn more eagerly. “Though you might easily wish to give her the slip, she is not one to forget you. If she is alive, you know where she is; speak then, and let the worth of one good action make what amends it can for a long list of evil ones.”
“You really want to see the woman, then; enough to pay for it, I mean?”
“The reward which has been offered for news of the fate or whereabouts of Jacqueline Japha, still stands good,” was Mr. Sylvester’s reply.
The excited stare with which the man received this announcement, slowly subsided into his former subtle look.
“Well, well,” said he, “we will see.” The truth was, that he knew no more than the other where this woman was to be found. “If I happen to come across her in any of my wanderings, I shall know where to apply for means to make her welcome. But that is not what at present concerns us. Your nephew is losing ground with every passing minute. In a half-hour more his future will be decided, unless you bid me order my lawyer to delay the forwarding of that communication to Mr. Stuyvesant. In that case—”
“I believe I have already made it plain to you that I have no intentions of interfering with your action in this matter,” quoth Mr. Sylvester, turning slowly toward the door. “If you are determined to send your statement, it must go, only—” And here he turned upon the bitterly disappointed man with an aspect whose nobility the other was but little calculated to appreciate—“only when you do so, be particular to state that the person whose story you thus forward to a director of the Madison Bank, is not Bertram Sylvester, the cashier, but Edward Sylvester, his uncle, and the bank’s president.”
And the stately head bowed and the tall form was about to withdraw, when Holt with an excited tremble that affected even his words, advanced and seized Mr. Sylvester by the arm.
“His uncle!” cried he, “why that is what you—Great heaven!” he exclaimed, falling back with an expression not unmixed with awe, “you are the man and you have denounced yourself!” Then quickly, “Speak again; let me hear your voice.”
And Mr. Sylvester with a sad smile, repeated in a slow and meaning tone, “It is but one little fuss more!” then as the other cringed, added a dignified, “Good evening, Mr. Holt,” and passed swiftly across the room towards the door.
What was it that stopped him halfway, and made him look back with such a startled glance at the man he had left behind him? A smell of
