The picture had changed. Mr. Lawton was leaning across the table,
levelling a pistol at my father's head. With a detached, academic
interest, my father glanced at the weapon, and, without perceptible
pause, without added haste or deliberation, he continued to withdraw the
hand he had thrust into his right coat pocket. Beside me I heard Brutus
draw a sharp breath. I saw Mr. Sims fumble under his cloak and take a
quick step backwards. There was a tense, pregnant silence, broken by Mr.
Sims in fervent expletive. My father had withdrawn his hand. He was
holding in it his silver snuff box, which he tossed carelessly on the
table, where it slid among the wine bottles.

"Why strain so at a gnat, Lawton," he continued in his old conversational
manner. "Though one can kill a sparrow with a five pound shot, is it
worth the effort? Small as my personal regard is for you, a note penned
in three lines would have brought you back your trinket. But when you say
it is stolen--"

With a gesture of exasperation, Mr. Lawton attempted to interrupt.

"When you say it is stolen," my father continued, raising his voice,
"your memory fails you. I won that snuff box from you fairly, because
your horse refused a water jump in Baltimore fifteen years ago."

Mr. Lawton made a grimace of impatience.

"Perhaps I can refresh your memory on a more immediate matter," he
interjected harshly, "a matter rather more in keeping with your
character. Don't, don't move, I beg of you! At a certain chateau in the
Loire Valley, as recently as two months ago, you had an unfortunate
escapade with French government agents."