Part 13 (1/2)

”It depends upon what you call a little child, doesn't it? Miss Carstairs is nineteen years old.”

Peter straightened in his chair with a jerk, and stared at him as though one or the other had suddenly gone mad.

”_Nineteen_! Why, I thought she was twelve.”

”So did I.”

”Why, how in Sam Hill did you ever make such an asinine mistake?”

Varney gave an impatient laugh.

”What difference does that make now? My impression was that the separation took place about eight years ago. It may have been twelve. My other impression was that the girl was about four at the time. She may have been eight instead. If it's of any interest to you, I should say that the mistake was natural enough. Besides, Uncle Elbert rather helped it along.”

”Uncle Elbert rather lied to you--that's what he did,” said Peter with the utmost quietness.

There was a considerable silence. Peter pulled frowningly at his cigar; it had gone out but he was too absorbed to notice it, and mechanically pulled on. Presently he raised his head and looked at Varney.

”Well? This ends it, I suppose? You'll go back to New York this afternoon?”

”No,” said Varney, ”I'm going to stay and carry it through just as I expected.”

Peter tapped the chair-arm with his heavy fingers. ”Why?”

”Because--well, I promised to, and on the strength of my promise, Uncle Elbert has gone to trouble and expense for one thing, and has pinned high hopes on me, for another. I had my chance to ask questions and make terms and stipulations--and I didn't do it. That was my fault. I am not even sure that he meant to deceive me. I have no right to break a contract because I find that my part in it is going to be harder than I thought.”

”This business about her age changes everything. Carstairs has no legal rights over a nineteen-year-old daughter.”

”Legal rights! My dear Peter, you never supposed I thought I was doing anything legal, did you? No, no; the moral part of it has been my prop and stay all along, and that still holds. I promised without conditions, and I'll go ahead on the same terms.”

”Give me a match,” said Peter thoughtfully. ”Maybe you are right, Larry,” he added presently. ”I only wanted to point out another way of looking at it. I stand absolutely by your decision. You think that this girl is wrong-headed and obstinate, and that her father has a moral right to have her, over age or not. This--discovery makes it a pretty serious business, but of course you've thought of all that. But--will it be possible now?”

”I have invited her,” said Varney, with a light laugh, ”to lunch on the _Cypriani_ on Thursday with two or three other Hunston friends.”

”Well?”

”She accepted with every mark of pleasure. Great men like Stanhope, it seems, require no introduction: it beats me. The point now is to find the other Hunston friends.”

”Hare and his sister, Mrs. Marne--the very thing!--chaperon and all!

I'll invite them to-night. Then the whole thing's done!” Peter sat silent a moment, looking at Varney. ”I've been awfully rushed to-day,”

he resumed, ”because if I was going to help Hare at all, I didn't dare lose this one big opportunity. But remember, anything that has to be done from now on--I'm your man.”

”There'll be nothing more now until Thursday. The thing's practically done.”

Peter was still looking at him steadily. ”It's going to be dirt easy, provided we don't weaken. You can't do things to your friends, but you can emphatically do them to your enemies. We have got to remember always that this girl, who has been so heartless to her old fool of a father, is our enemy.”

”Yes, that is what we have got to remember.”

”Good Lord!” cried Peter, looking at his watch. ”Twenty minutes past four, and I must be at the hall at four-thirty sharp. I'll have to sneak right away. You're going to sit tight on the yacht, of course?”