He told also about the pretended search which Captain Stewart had so long maintained, and of how he had tried to mislead the other searchers whose motives were honest.

“It has been a gigantic gamble, my friend,” he said, at the last.  “A gigantic and desperate gamble to get the money that should be yours.  You can end it by the mere trouble of climbing over that wall yonder and taking the Clamart tram back to Paris.  As easily as that you can end it—­and, if I am not mistaken, you can at the same time save an old man’s life—­prolong it at the very least.”  He took a step forward.  “I beg you to go!” he said, very earnestly.  “You know the whole truth now.  You must see what danger you have been and are in.  You must know that I am telling you the truth.  I beg you to go back to Paris.”

And from where she stood, a little aside, Coira O’Hara said:  “I beg you, too, Arthur.  Go back to them.”

The boy dropped down upon a tree-stump which was near and covered his face with his hands.  The two who watched him could see that he was trembling violently.  Over him their eyes met and they questioned each other with a mute and anxious gravity: 

“What will he do?” For everything was in Arthur Benham’s weak hands now.

For a little time, which seemed hours to all who were there, the lad sat still, hiding his face, but suddenly he sprang to his feet, and once more stood staring into Ste. Marie’s quiet eyes.  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” he cried, and his voice ran up high and shrill and wavered and broke.  “How do I know that?  You’d tell just as smooth a story if—­if you were lying—­if you’d been sent here to get me back to—­to what old Charlie said they wanted me for.”

“You have only to go back to them and make sure,” said Ste. Marie.  “They can’t harm you or take anything from you.  If they persuaded you to sign anything—­which they will not do—­it would be valueless to them, because you’re a minor.  You know that as well as I do.  Go and make sure.  Or wait!  Wait!” He gave a little sharp laugh of excitement.  “Is Captain Stewart in the house?” he demanded.  “Call him out here.  That’s better still.  Bring your uncle here to face me without telling him what it’s for, without giving him time to make up a story.  Then we shall see.  Send for him.”

“He’s not here,” said the boy “He went away an hour ago.  I don’t know whether he’ll be back to-night or not.”  Young Arthur stared at the elder man, breathing hard.  “Good God!” he said, in a whisper, “if—­old Charlie is rotten, who in this world isn’t?  I—­don’t know what to believe.”  Abruptly he turned with a sort of snarl upon Coira O’Hara.  “Have you been in this game, too?” he cried out.  “I suppose you and your precious father and old Charlie cooked it up together.  What?  You’ve been having a fine, low-comedy time laughing yourselves to death at me, haven’t you?  Oh, Lord, what a gang!”