The Prodigal Father Part 52

"She lives in London."

"Lives!" shrieked the lady. "Andrew--you are a bigamist! And I--I am not lawfully--"

She leapt up and gave him one terrible look; and before he could speak she had swept wrathfully from the room.

And then the most surprising thing occurred. Instead of continuing his filial overtures, the young man sank into the corner of the sofa and burst into peal upon peal of boyish laughter.

"Oh, my dear Andrew!" he gasped. "Oh, I can't help it--you a bigamist!

Poor respectable old blighter! I say, what a joke! Oh, Andrew, Andrew, my bonny, bonny boy!"

In silence through it all, Andrew gazed darkly down at the late Heriot Walkingshaw.

CHAPTER VI

"When you have finished," said Andrew grimly.

He looked a nasty customer to tackle now, but the laugher on the sofa merely subsided into a friendly smile.

"Shake hands, Andrew," he cried, jumping up.

Andrew placed his hands behind his back, and his glowering eyes answered this overture.

"What!" said Heriot, "won't you even shake hands?"

Andrew still stared darkly.

"You'd rather have it war than peace?"

"I had rather conclude this conversation as soon as possible."

Heriot looked at him for a moment, and then shook his head with a smile compounded of sorrow and humor.

"You're a hopeless case," said he. "Well, your blood be on your own head!"

Andrew's lip grew longer and longer.

"I admit you've made a fool of me," he said, "if that's any satisfaction. But you'll make nothing out of me; not a s.h.i.+lling, not a halfpenny. Do you hear?"

"Is that all?"

"Practically; but I may just as well point out, to let you see where you stand, that as you have now done your worst, there's no use trying on blackmail or anything of that kind. You have been so very clever, you've thrown away any hold you might fancy you had. Do you quite understand that?"

Heriot began to smile again, and Andrew's face grew grimmer.

"You can prove _nothing_. You may say you're my father if you like--"

"G.o.d forbid!" Heriot interrupted devoutly. "I've had enough of fathering a bogle. Claim any sire you like from Lucifer downwards, but don't put the blame on me. I won't be disgraced with you again; not at any price."

For a few moments Andrew seemed to be in travail of a fitting repartee.

When it appeared it possessed all the practical characteristics of its parent.

"In that case," he retorted, "you had better clear out of my house as quick as you can."

Heriot regarded him with extreme composure.

"Do you actually imagine you are going to get off as easy as this?" he inquired, "Man Andrew, I haven't been senior partner in Walkingshaw & Gilliflower for nothing. You're just a rat in a trap. That's precisely your position at this moment."

"I'd be glad to hear you explain how you make that out," said Andrew.

Heriot smiled humorously as he produced a bulky pocket-book. Out of this he selected one of many letters it contained.

"Do you know the writing?" he asked.

Andrew turned a thought more solemn, but his only answer was a wary sidelong glance.

"Don't be afraid to say. A hundred people can swear to it. There's no secret to be kept."

"It is my late father's hand," said Andrew gravely.

His guest burst into a shout of laughter, and then with an effort pulled himself together again.

"Read it," he said, "and by the way, I may just as well tell you I've plenty more like it, so there's no point in putting it in the fire."

Andrew took it with gingerly suspicion, which changed into a different emotion as he read:

"DEAR HARRIS,--I write to let you know that I have reached this city in safety and am slowly recovering from the mental anguish I have undergone. As regards my wretched and ungrateful son Andrew, I still disagree with you. No, Harris, I cannot bring myself to expose the infamy of my eldest boy to a thunder-struck world; I simply cannot do it. His immorality and dishonesty temporarily unhinged my mind. I am exiled through his perfidy, but I forgive him, Harris; I forgive him. Hoping to see you again someday,--

"Your unhappy friend,

"J. HERIOT WALKINGSHAW"

The address was an hotel in Monte Video, and the date about two years before.

"What--what's all this rigmarole?" gasped Andrew. "It's sheer nonsense from beginning to end."

His unwelcome guest was again shaken with boyish laughter.

"Prove it!" he cried. "Prove it's nonsense! Eh? How'll you manage that?"

Andrew's face grew darker and darker.

"Who does 'Harris' profess to be, I'd like to know?"

"Grandson of Mrs. Harris!" laughed Heriot.