I little wondered at this.  Philip sank back, and for some moments eyed me between narrowed lids.  He continued presently with shortened breath: 

“I have evidence—­I have evidence to get you back a good share of the estate, which my father will never miss.  And I will do it,” he cries, suddenly bold, “I will do it for three thousand pounds down when you receive it.”

This was why he had come with Tom to Talbot!  I was so dumfounded that my speech was quite taken away.  Then I got up and began pacing the room.  Was it not fair to fight a scoundrel with his own weapons?  Here at last was the witness Mr. Swain had been seeking so long, come of his own free will.  Then—­Heaven help me!—­my mind flew on.  As time had passed I had more than once regretted refusing the Kent plantation, which had put her from whom my thought never wandered within my reach again.  Good Mr. Swain had erred for once.  ’Twas foolish, indeed, not to accept a portion of what was rightfully mine, when no more could be got.  And now, if what Philip said was true (and I doubted it not), here at last was the chance come again to win her without whom I should never be happy.  I glanced at my cousin.

“Gad’s life!” says he, “it is cheap enough.  I might have asked you double.”

“So you might, and have been refused,” I cried hotly.  For I believe that speech of his recalled me to my senses.  It has ever been an instinct with me that no real prosperity comes out of double-dealing.  And commerce with such a sneak sickened me.  “Go back to your father, Philip, and threaten him, and he may make you rich.  Such as he live by blackmail.  And you may add, and you will, that the day of retribution is coming for him.”

CHAPTER XLVIII

MULTUM IN PARVO

I lost no time after getting to Annapolis in confiding to Mr. Swain the conversation I had had with my cousin Philip.  And I noticed, as he sat listening to my account in the library in Gloucester Street, that the barrister looked very worn.  He had never been a strong man, and the severe strain he had been under with the patriots’ business was beginning to tell.

He was very thoughtful when I had finished, and then told me briefly that I had done well not to take the offer.  “Tucker would have made but short work of such evidence, my lad,” said he, “and I think Master Philip would have lied himself in and out a dozen times.  I cannot think what witness he would have introduced save Mr. Allen.  And there is scarcely a doubt that your uncle pays him for his silence, for I am told he is living in Frederick in a manner far above what he gets from the parish.  However, Philip has given us something more to work on.  It may be that he can put hands on the messenger.”

I rose to go.

“We shall bring them to earth yet, Richard, and I live,” he added.  “And I have always meant to ask you whether you ever regretted your decision in taking Gordon’s Pride.”