THE AMERICAN
"I shall be strictly accurate," said Newman. "I won't pretend to know more than I do. At present that's all I know. You've done something regularly nefarious, something that would ruin you if it were known, something that would disgrace the name you're so proud of. I don't know what it is, but I've reason to believe I can find out—though of course I had much rather not. Persist in your present course, however, and I will find out. Depart from that course, let your sister go in peace, and then fancy how I'll leave you alone. It's a bargain?"
Urbain's face looked to him now like a mirror, very smooth fine glass, breathed upon and blurred; but what he would have liked still better to see was a spreading, disfiguring crack. There was something of that, to be sure, in the grimace with which the Marquis brought out: "My brother regaled you with this infamy?"
Newman scantly hesitated. "Yes—it was a treat!"
The grimace, if anything, deepened. "He raved at the last then so horribly?"
"He raved if I find nothing out. If I find—what you know I may find—he was beautifully inspired."
M. de Bellegarde's shoulders declined even a shrug. "Eh, sir, find what you 'damn please'!"
"What I say has no weight with you?" Newman was thus reduced to asking.
"That's for you to judge."
"No, it's for you to judge—at your leisure. Think it over; feel yourself all round; I'll give you an hour or two. I can't give you more, for how do we know how tight they may n't be locking your
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