“Certainly the letter was written by our firm to your father, Mr. Ravenel. But it was the last letter we wrote to him. It closed our connection with him. We never heard from him again; and the letter is as you have seen, nine years old.”
“Exactly,” said Paul. “Just about that time my father and I were in London together for a couple of months, and when I found that letter it seemed to me to explain why. My father was in London to arrange for the transfer of his property to France, for the final annihilation of all his interests and associations with this country.”
It was an assertion rather than a question, but Mr. Ferguson answered it.
“Yes. I suppose that you may put it that way.”
“Before that time, then, you were his advisers.”
“That’s why I came to you, Mr. Ferguson,” cried the youth eagerly. “I want to know what happened to my father in the days when you were his advisers. I want to know why he renounced his own country, why he buried himself first in a little distant town on the sea coast of Morocco like Casablanca, why he took refuge afterwards in a still closer seclusion at Aguilas in Spain. You know! You must know!”
Mr. Ferguson rose from his desk and walked to the fireplace which was between his desk and the chair on which Paul was seated. He was puzzled by the manner of the appeal. There was more eagerness than anxiety in it. There was certainly no fear. There was even confidence. Mr. Ferguson wondered whether young Ravenel had some explanation of his own, an explanation which quite satisfied him and which he only needed to have confirmed. Paul’s voice broke in upon his wondering.
“Of course I can always find out. It’s only a question of knowing the ropes. I have no doubt a good enquiry agent could get me the truth in a very few days if I went to one.”
Mr. Ferguson lifted himself on his toes and looked up to the ceiling.
“I don’t think I should do that,” he answered.
“Whether I do or not depends upon you, Mr. Ferguson,” said Paul, very quietly. “It’s not curiosity that’s driving me, but I have my life in front of me, and a plan for it.”
He rose and stood at the open window for a moment or two, and then turned abruptly back and stood before Mr. Ferguson.
“You see, I was nine years old when I was with my father in London, old enough to notice, and old enough to remember. And one or two very curious things happened. We were in lodgings in a little quiet street, and except on occasions when, I suppose, he had appointments with you, my father never went out by daylight.”