Ste. Marie frowned, for his temper was never of the most patient, and the youth’s sneering tone annoyed him.  Truth to tell, the tone was about all he understood, for the strange words were incomprehensible.

“Look here, Benham,” he said, sharply, “you and I have never met, I believe, but we have a good many friends in common, and I think we know something about each other.  Have you ever heard anything about me which would give you the right to suspect me of any dishonesty of any sort?  Have you?”

“Oh, slush!” said the boy.  “Anybody’ll be dishonest if it’s worth his while.”

“That happens to be untrue,” Ste. Marie remarked, “and as you grow older you will know it.  Leaving my honesty out of the question if you like, I have the honor to tell you that I am, perhaps not quite formally, engaged to your sister, and it is on her account, for her sake, that I am here.  You will hardly presume, I take it, to question your sister’s motive in wanting you to return home?  Incidentally, your grandfather is so overcome by grief over your absence that he is expected to die at any time.  Come,” said he, “I have said enough to convince you that you must listen to me.  Believe what you please, but listen to me for five minutes.  After that I have small doubt of what you will do.”

The boy looked nervously from Ste. Marie to Mlle. O’Hara and back again.  He thrust his unsteady hands into his pockets, but withdrew them after a moment and clasped them together behind him.

“I tell you,” he burst out, at last—­“I tell you, it’s no good your trying to knock old Charlie to me.  I won’t stand for it.  Old Charlie’s my best friend, and I’d believe him before I’d believe anybody in the world.  You’ve got a knife out for old Charlie, that’s what’s the matter with you.”

“And your sister?” suggested Ste. Marie.  “Your mother?  You’d hardly know your mother if you could see her to-day.  It has pretty nearly killed her.”

“Ah, they’re all—­they’re all against me!” the lad cried.  “They’ve always stood together against me.  Helen, too!”

“You wouldn’t think they were against you if you could just see them once now,” said Ste. Marie.

And Arthur Benham gave a sort of shamefaced sob, saying: 

“Ah, cut it out!  Cut it out!  Go on, then, and talk, if you want to, I don’t care.  I don’t have to listen.  Talk, if you’re pining for it.”

And Ste. Marie, as briefly as he could, told him the truth of the whole affair from the beginning, as he had told it to Coira O’Hara.  Only he laid special stress upon Charles Stewart’s present expectations from the new will, and he assured the boy that no document his grandfather might have asked him to sign could have given away his rights in his father’s fortune, since he was a minor and had no legal right to sign away anything at all even if he wished to.

“If you will look back as calmly and carefully as you can,” he said, “you will find that you didn’t begin to suspect your grandfather of anything wrong until you had talked with Captain Stewart.  It was your uncle’s explanation of the thing that made you do that.  Well, remember what he had at stake—­I suppose it is a matter of several millions of francs.  And he needs them.  His affairs are in a bad way.”