 54 The second robbery to which Lady Eustis had been subjected by no means decreased the interest which was attached to her and her concerns in the fashionable world. Parliament had now met, and the party at matching Priory, Lady Glencora Palacere's party in the country, had been to some extent broken up. All those gentlemen who were engaged in the service of Her Majesty's government had necessarily gone to London, and they who had wives at matching had taken their wives with them. Mr. and Mrs. Bontein had seen the last of their holiday. Mr. Palacere himself was, of course, at his post, and all the private secretaries were with the public secretaries on the scene of action. On the thirteenth of February Mr. Palacere made his first great statement in Parliament on the matter of the five farthinged penny, and pledged himself to do his very best to carry that stupendous measure through Parliament in the present session. The city men who were in the house that night, and all the directors of the Bank of England were in the gallery, and every chairman of a great banking company, and every bearing and every Rothschild, if there be bearings and Rothschilds who have not been returned by constituencies, and have not seats in the house by right, agreed in declaring that the job in hand was too much for any one member or any one session. Some said that such a measure never could be passed, because the unfinished work of one session could not be used in lessening the labours of the next. Everything must be reccommenced, and therefore, so said these hopeless ones, the penny with five farthings, the penny of which a hundred would make ten shillings, the calcium penny, which would make all future pecuniary calculations easy to the meanest British capacity, could never become the law of the land. Others, more hopeful, were willing to believe that, gradually, the thing would so sink into the minds of members of Parliament, of writers of leading articles, and of the active public generally, as to admit of certain established axioms being taken as established, and placed as it were beyond the procrastinating power of debate. It might, for instance, at last be taken for granted, that a decimal system was desirable, so that a month or two of the spring need not be consumed on that preliminary question. But this period had not as yet been reached, and it was thought by the entire city that Mr. Palacere was much too sanguine. It was so probable, many said, that he might kill himself by labour, which would be Herculean in all but success, and that no financier after him would venture to face the task. It behooved Lady Glencora to see that her Herculeans did not kill himself. In this state of affairs, Lady Glencora, into whose hands the custody of Mr. Palacere's uncle, the Duke, had now altogether fallen, had a divided duty between matching and London. When the members of Parliament went up to London, she went there also, leaving some half-dozen friends whom she could trust to amuse the Duke. But she soon returned, knowing that there might be danger in a long absence. The Duke, though old, was his own master. He much affected the company of Madame Gussler, and that lady's kindness to him was considerate and incessant. But there might still be danger, and Lady Glencora felt that she was responsible, that the old nobleman should do nothing in the feebleness of age to derogate from the splendour of his past life. What if some day his grace should be off to Paris, and insist on making Madame Gussler a duchess in the chapel of the Embassy? Madame Gussler had hitherto behaved very well, would probably continue to behave well. Lady Glencora really loved Madame Gussler. But then the interests at stake were very great. So circumstances Lady Glencora found herself compelled to be often on the road between matching and London. But though she was birthened with great care, Lady Glencora by no means dropped her interest in the Eustace Diamonds. And when she learned that on the top of the great Carlisle robbery, a second robbery had been super-added, and that this had been achieved while all the London police were yet astray about the former operation, her solicitude was, of course, enhanced. The duke himself, too, took the matter up so strongly that he almost wanted to be carried up to London, with some view, as it was supposed by the ladies who were so good to him, of seeing Lady Eustace personally. "'It's out of the question, my dear,' Lady Glencora said to Madame Gussler, when the duke's fancy was first mentioned to her by that lady. I told him that the trouble would be too much for him. Of course it would be too much," said Lady Glencora. "'It is quite out of the question.'" Then after a moment she added in a whisper. "'Who knows? But what he'd insist on marrying her? It isn't every woman that can resist temptation.' Madame Gussler smiled and shook her head, but made no answer to Lady Glencora's suggestion. Lady Glencora assured her uncle that everything should be told to him. She would write about it daily, and send him the latest news by the wires, if the post should be too slow." "'Ah, yes,' said the duke. "'I like telegrams best. I think you know that that Lord George Carothers has had something to do with it. Don't you, Madame Gussler?' It had long been evident that the duke was anxious that one of his own orders should be proved to have been the thief. As the plunder taken was so lordly. In regard to Lizzie herself, Lady Glencora, on her return to London, took it into her head to make a diversion in our heroine's favour. It had hitherto been a matter of faith with all the Liberal Party, that Lady Eustace had had something to do with stealing her own diamonds. That Esprit de Cour, which is the glorious characteristic of English statesmen, had caused the whole government to support Lord Faughn, and Lord Faughn could only be supported on the supposition that Lizzie Eustace had been a wicked culprit. But Lady Glencora, though very true as a politician, was amped to have opinions of her own, and to take certain flights in which she chose that others of the party should follow her. She now expressed an opinion that Lady Eustace was a victim, and all the Mrs. Bonteens, and some even of the Mr. Bonteens, found themselves compelled to agree with her. She stood too high among her set to be subject to that obedience which restrained others, too high also for others to resist her leading. As a member of a party she was erratic and dangerous, but from her position and peculiar temperament she was powerful. When she declared that poor Lady Eustace was a victim, others were obliged to say so, too. This was particularly hard upon Lord Faughn, and the more so as Lady Glencora took upon her to assert that Lord Faughn had no right to jilt the young woman. And Lady Glencora had this to support her views, that, for the last week passed—indeed, ever since the depositions which had been taken after the robbery in Hertford Street—the police had expressed no fresh suspicions in regard to Lizzie Eustace. She heard daily from Barrington Earl that Major Macintosh and Bunfit and Gager were as active as ever in their inquiries, that all Scotland yard was determined to unravel the mystery, and that there were emissaries at work tracking the diamonds at Homburg, Paris, Vienna, and New York. It had been whispered to Mr. Earl that the whereabouts of Patience Crabstick had been discovered, and that many of the leading thieves in London were assisting the police. But nothing more was done in the way of fixing any guilt upon Lizzie Eustace. Upon my word I am beginning to think that she has been more sinned against than sinning. This was said to Lady Glencora on the morning after Mr. Palacere's great speech about the five farthings, by Barrington Earl, who, as it seemed, had been specially told off by the party to watch this investigation. I am sure she has had nothing to do with it. I have thought so ever since the last robbery. Sir Simon Slope told me yesterday afternoon that Mr. Camperdown has given it up altogether. Sir Simon Slope was the solicitor-general of that day. It would be absurd for him to go on with his bill in chancery, now that the diamonds are gone, unless he meant to make her pay for them. That would be rank persecution. Indeed, she has been persecuted. I shall call upon her. Then she wrote the following letter to the Duke. My dear Duke, Plantagenet was on his legs last night for three hours and three quarters, and I sat through it all. As far as I could observe, through the bars, I was the only person in the house who listened to him. I am sure Mr. Gresham was fast asleep. It was quite piteous to see some of them yawning. Plantagenet did it very well, and I almost think I understood him. They seemed to say that nobody on the other side will take trouble enough to make a regular opposition, but that there are men in the city who will write letters to the newspapers and get up a sort of bank clamor. Plantagenet says nothing about it, but there is a do or die manner with him which is quite tragical. The house was up at eleven, when he came home and ate three oysters, drank a glass of beer, and slept well. They say the real work will come when it's in committee, that is, if it gets there. The bill is to be brought in and will be read the first time next Monday week. As to the robberies, I believe there is no doubt that the police have got hold of the young woman. They don't arrest her, but deal with her in a friendly sort of way. Barrington Earl says that a sergeant is to marry her in order to make quite sure of her. I suppose they know their business, but that wouldn't strike me as being the safest way. They seem to think the diamonds went to Paris, but have since been sent on to New York. As to the little widow, I do believe she has been made a victim. She first lost her diamonds, and now her other jewels and her money have gone. I cannot see what she was to gain by treachery, and I think she has been ill-used. She is staying at the house of that Mrs. Carbunkle, but all the same I shall go and call on her. I wish you could see her, because she is such a little beauty, just what you would like. Not so much color as our friend, but perfect features with infinite play. Not perhaps always in the very best taste, but then we can't have everything, can we, dear Duke? As to the real thief, of course you must burn this at once, and keep it strictly private as coming from me. I fancy that delightful scotch-lord managed it entirely. The idea is that he did it on commission for the Jew-Jewelers. I don't suppose he had money enough to carry it out himself. As to the second robbery, whether he had or had not a hand in that, I can't make up my mind. I don't see why he shouldn't. If a man does go into a business, he ought to make the best of it. Of course it was a poor thing after the diamonds, but still it was worth having. There is some story about a Ser Gryphon to it. He's a real Ser Gryphon, as you'll find by the peerage. He was to marry a young woman, and our Lord George insists that he shall marry her. I don't understand all about it, but the girl lives in the same house with Lady Eustace, and if I call I shall find out. They say that Ser Gryphon knows all about the necklace, and threatens to tell unless he is let off marrying. I rather think the girl is Lord George's daughter, so that there is a thorough complication. I shall go down to matching on Saturday. If anything turns up before that, I'll write again or send a message. I don't know whether Plantagenet will be able to leave London. He says he must be back on Monday, and that he loses too much time on the road. Kiss my little darlings for me. The darlings were Lady Glencora's children, and the Duke's play things. And give my love to Madame Max. I suppose you don't see much of the others. First affectionately yours, Glencora. On the next day Lady Glencora actually did call in Herdford Street, and saw our friend Lizzie. She was told by the servant that Lady Eustace was in bed. But with her usual persistence, she asked questions, and when she found that Lizzie did receive visitors in her room, she sent up her card. The compliment was one much too great to be refused. Lady Glencora stood so high in the world that her countenance would be almost as valuable as another lover. If Lord George would keep her secret, and Lady Glencora would be her friend, might she not still be a successful woman? So Lady Glencora Palacere was shown up to Lizzie's chamber. Lizzie was found with her nicest nightcap, and prettiest handkerchief, with a volume of Tennyson's poetry and a scent bottle. She knew that it behooved her to be very clever at this interview. Her instinct told her that her first greeting should show more of surprise than of gratification. Accordingly, in a pretty, feminine, almost childish way, she was very much surprised. "'I'm doing the strangest thing in the world, I know,' Lady Eustace said Lady Glencora, with a smile. "'I'm sure you mean to do a kind thing.' "'Well, yes, I do. I think we have not met since you were at my house, near the end of last season.' "'No, indeed. I have been in London six weeks, but have not been out much. For the last fortnight I have been in bed. I have had things to trouble me so much that they have made me ill.' "'So I have heard, Lady Eustace, and I have just come to offer you my sympathy. When I was told that you did see people, I thought that perhaps you would admit me.' "'So, willingly, Lady Glencora, I have heard, of course, of your terrible losses. The loss has been as nothing to the vexation that has accompanied it. I don't know how to speak of it. Police have lost their jewels before now, but I don't know that any lady before me has ever been accused of stealing them herself. There has been no accusation, surely. I haven't exactly been put in prison, Lady Glencora, but I have had policemen here wanting to search my things, and then you know yourself what reports have been spread. "'Oh, yes, I do. Only for that, to tell you plainly, I should hardly have been here now.' Then Lady Glencora poured out her sympathy, perhaps with more eloquence and grace than discretion. She was, at any rate, both graceful and eloquent. "'As for the loss of the diamonds, I think you bear it wonderfully,' said Lady Glencora. "'If you could imagine how little I care about it,' said Lizzie, with enthusiasm. They had lost the delight which I used to feel in them as a present from my husband. People had talked about them, and I had been threatened because I chose to keep what I knew to be my own. Of course I would not give them up. Would you have given them up, Lady Glencora? Certainly not. Nor would I. But when once all that had begun, they became an irrepressible burden to me. I often used to say that I would throw them into the sea. "'I don't think I would have done that,' said Lady Glencora. "'Ah, you have never suffered as I have suffered. We never know where each other's shoes pinch each other's toes. You have never been left desolate. You have a husband and friends. A husband that wants to put five farthings into a penny—all is not gold that glistens, Lady Eustace. You can never have known trials such as mine,' continued Lizzie, not understanding in the least her new friend's allusion to the great currency question. Perhaps you may have heard that in the course of last summer I became engaged to Mary a nobleman, with whom I am aware that you are acquainted." This, she said, in her softest whisper. "'Oh, yes, Lord Vaughn. I know him very well. Of course I heard of it. We all heard of it.' "'And you have heard how he has treated me?' "'Yes, indeed.' "'I will say nothing about him to you, Lady Glencora. It would not be proper that I should do so. But all that came of this wretched necklace. After that, can you wonder that I should say that I wish these stones had been thrown into the sea?' "'I suppose, Lord Vaughn, we'll—we'll come all right again now,' said Lady Glencora. "'All right!' exclaimed Lizzie in astonishment. His objection to the marriage will now be over. I'm sure I do not, in the least know, what are his lordship's views,' said Lizzie in scorn, and, to tell the truth, I do not very much care. What I mean is that he didn't like you to have the Eustace Diamonds. They were not Eustace Diamonds. They were my Diamonds. But he did not like you to have them. And as they are now gone—forever—Oh, yes, they are gone forever. His objection is gone, too. Why don't you write to him, and make him come and see you? That's what I should do!' Lizzie, of course, repudiated vehemently any idea of forcing Lord Vaughn into a marriage which had become distasteful to him. Let the reason be what it might. His lordship is perfectly free as far as I am concerned,' said Lizzie, with a little show of anger. But all this Lady Glencora took at its worth. Lizzie Eustace had been a good deal knocked about, and Lady Glencora did not doubt, but that she would be very glad to get back her betrothed husband. The little woman had suffered hardships, so thought Lady Glencora, and a good thing would be done by bringing her into fashion and setting the marriage up again. Thanks to Lord Vaughn, the fortune was there, as good now as it had been when he first sought it, and the Lady was very pretty, a baronet's widow too, and in all respects good enough for Lord Vaughn, a very pretty little baronet's widow she was, with four thousand a year and a house in Scotland, and a history. Lady Glencora determined that she would remake the match. I think, you know, friends who have been friends should be brought together. I suppose I may say a word to Lord Vaughn. Lizzie hesitated for a moment before she answered, and then remembered that revenge at least would be sweet to her. She had sworn that she would be revenged upon Lord Vaughn. After all, might it not suit her best to carry out her oath by marrying him? And whether so, or otherwise, it would not but be well for her that he should be again at her feet. Yes, if you think good will come of it. The acquiescence was given with much hesitation, but the circumstances required that it should be so, and Lady Glencora fully understood the circumstances. When she took her leave, Lizzie was profuse in her gratitude. Oh, Lady Glencora, it has been so good of you to come. Pray come again. If you can spare me another moment." Lady Glencora said that she would come again. During the visit she had asked some question concerning Lucinda and Sir Griffin, and had been informed that that marriage was to go on. A hint had been thrown out as to Lucinda's parentage, but Lizzie had not understood the hint, and the question had not been pressed. End of Chapter fifty-four. Recording by Laura Koskinen. Chapter fifty-five of the Eustis Diamonds. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Eustis Diamonds by Antony Trollop. Chapter fifty-five. Quints or Semi-tenths. The task which Lady Glencora had taken upon herself was not a very easy one. No doubt Lord Fawn was a man subservient to the leaders of his party, much afraid of the hard judgment of those with whom he was concerned, painfully open to impression from what he would have called public opinion, to a certain extent a coward, most anxious to do right so that he might not be accused of being in the wrong, and at the same time gifted with but little of that insight into things, which teaches men to know what is right and what is wrong. Lady Glencora, having perceived all this, felt that he was a man upon whom a few words from her might have an effect. But even Lady Glencora might hesitate to tell a gentleman that he ought to marry a lady, when the gentleman had already declared his intention of not marrying, and had attempted to justify his decision, almost publicly, by a reference to the lady's conduct. Lady Glencora almost felt that she had undertaken too much, as she turned over in her mind the means she had of performing her promise to Lady Eustis. The five-farthing bill had been laid upon the table on a Tuesday, and was to be read the first time on the following Monday week. On the Wednesday Lady Glencora had written to the Duke, and had called in Hurtford Street. On the following Sunday she was at matching, looking after the Duke, but she returned to London on the Tuesday, and on the Wednesday there was a little dinner at Mr. Palacere's house, given avowedly with the object of further friendly discussion respecting the new Palacere penny. The Prime Minister was to be there, and Mr. Bontein and Barrington Earle, and those special members of the government who would be available for giving special help to the financial Hercules of the day. A question, perhaps of no great practical importance, had occurred to Mr. Palacere, but one which, if overlooked, might be fatal to the ultimate success of the measure. There is so much in a name, and then an ounce of ridicule is often more potent than a hundred weight of argument. By what denomination should the fifth part of a penny be hereafter known? Someone had, ill-naturedly, whispered to Mr. Palacere that a farthing meant a fourth, and at once there arose a new trouble, which for a time bore very heavily on him. Should he boldly disregard the original meaning of the useful old word, or should he venture on the dangers of new nomenclature? October, as he said to himself, is still the tenth month of the year, November the eleventh and so on, though by these names they are so plainly called the eighth and ninth. All France tried to rid itself of this absurdity and failed. Should he stick by the farthing, or should he call it a fifth thing, a quint, or a semi-tenth? There's the fortnightly review comes out but once a month, he said to his friend Mr. Bonteen, and I'm told that it does very well. Mr. Bonteen, who was a rational man, thought the review would do better if it were called by a more rational name, and was very much in favor of a quint. Mr. Gresham had expressed an opinion, somewhat offhand, that English people would never be got to talk about quints, and so there was a difficulty. A little dinner was therefore arranged, and Mr. Palisare, as was his custom in such matters, put the affair of the dinner into his wife's hands. When he was told that she had included Lord Fawn among the guests, he opened his eyes. Lord Fawn, who might be good enough at the India office, knew literally nothing about the penny. He'll take it as the greatest compliment in the world," said Lady Glencora. I don't want to pay Lord Fawn a compliment, said Mr. Palisare. But I do," said Lady Glencora, and so the matter was arranged. It was a very nice little dinner. Mrs. Gresham and Mrs. Bonteen were there, and the great question of the day was settled in two minutes before the guests went out of the drawing-room. "'Stick to your farthing,' said Mr. Gresham. "'I think so,' said Mr. Palisare. "'Quints, a very easy word,' said Mr. Bonteen. But squint is an easier,' said Mr. Gresham, with all a prime minister's jacos authority. "'They'd certainly be called cock-eyes,' said Barrington Earle. "'There's nothing of the sound of a quarter in farthing,' said Mr. Palisare. "'Stick to the old word,' said Mr. Gresham. And so the matter was decided, while Lady Glencora was flattering Lord Fawn, as to the manner in which he had finally arranged the affair of the saw-ab of Mygob. Then they went down to dinner, and not a word more was said that evening about the new penny by Mr. Palisare. Before dinner Lady Glencora had exacted a promise from Lord Fawn that he would return to the drawing-room. Lady Glencora was very clever at such work, and said nothing then of her purpose. She did not want her guests to run away, and therefore Lord Fawn, Lord Fawn especially, must stay. If he were to go there would be nothing spoken of all the evening but that weary new penny. To oblite her he must remain, and of course he did remain. "'Whom do you think I saw the other day?' said Lady Glencora, when she got her victim into a corner. Of course Lord Fawn had no idea whom she might have seen. Up to that moment no suspicion of what was coming upon him had crossed his mind. I called upon poor Lady Eustace, and found her in bed. Then did Lord Fawn blush up to the roots of his hair, and for a moment he was stricken dumb. I do feel, for her so much, I think she has been so hardly used. She was obliged to say something. My name has, of course, been much mixed up with hers. "'Yes, Lord Fawn, I know it has. And it is because I am so sure of your high-minded generosity, and—and thorough devotion, that I have ventured to speak to you. I am sure there is nothing you would wish so much as to get at the truth." Certainly, Lady Glencora. All manner of stories have been told about her, and as I believe without the slightest foundation. They tell me now that she had an undoubted right to keep the diamonds. That even if Sir Florian did not give them to her, they were hers under his will. Those lawyers have given up all idea of proceeding against her. Because the necklace has been stolen. Put together independently of that. Do you see Mr. Eustis, and ask him if what I say is not true? If it had not been her own, she would have been responsible for the value, even though it were stolen, and with such a fortune as hers they would never have allowed her to escape. They were as bitter against her as they could be, weren't they? Mr. Camperdown thought that the property should be given up. Oh yes, that's the man's name, a horrid man. I am told that he was really most cruel to her. And then, because a lot of thieves had got about her, after the diamonds, you know, like flies round a honey-pot, and took first her necklace and then her money, they were impudent enough to say that she had stolen her own things. I don't think they quite said that, Lady Glencora. I think very much like it, Lord Fawn. I have no doubt in my own mind who did steal all the things. Who was it? Oh, one mustn't mention names in such an affair without evidence. At any rate, she has been very badly treated, and I shall take her up. If I were you, I would go and call upon her, I would indeed. I think you owe it to her. Well, Duke, what do you think of Plantagenet's penny now? Will it ever be worth two half-pence? This question was asked of the Duke of St. Bungay, a great nobleman whom all liberals loved, and a member of the cabinet. He had come in since dinner, and had been asking a question or two as to what had been decided. Well, yes, if properly invested, I think it will. I'm glad that it is not to contain five semi-tenths. A semi-tenth would never have been a popular form of money in England. We hate new names so much that we have not yet got beyond talking of four-penny bits. There's a great deal in a name, isn't there? You don't think they'll call them palisers, or pals, or anything of that sort, do you? I shouldn't like to hear that under the new regime two lollipops were to cost three pals. But they say it never can be carried this session, and we shan't be in in the next year. Who says so? Don't be such a prophetess of evil, Lady Glencora. I mean to be in for the next three sessions, and I mean to see palisers measure carried through the House of Lords next session. I shall be paying for my mutton chops at the club at so many quints a chop yet. Don't you think so, Fawn? I don't know what to think," said Lord Fawn, whose mind was intent on other matters. After that he left the room as quickly as he could, and escaped out into the street. His mind was very much disturbed. If Lady Glencora was determined to take up the cudgels for the woman he had rejected, the comfort and peace of his life would be over. He knew well enough how strong was Lady Glencora. Chapter 56 of The Eustis Diamonds Mrs. Carbuncle and Lady Eustis had now been up in town between six and seven weeks, and the record of their doings has necessarily dealt chiefly with robberies and the rumors of robberies. But at intervals the minds of the two ladies had been intent on other things. The former was still intent on marrying her niece Lucinda Roanoke to Sir Griffin, and the latter had never for a moment forgotten the imperative duty which lay upon her of avenging herself upon Lord Fawn. The match between Sir Griffin and Lucinda was still to be a match. Mrs. Carbuncle persevered in the teeth both of the gentleman and of the lady, and still promised herself success. And our Lizzie, in the midst of all her troubles, had not been idle. In doing her justice we must acknowledge that she had almost abandoned the hope of becoming Lady Fawn. Other hopes and other ambitions had come upon her. Laterally the corsair had been all in all to her, with exceptional moments in which she told herself that her heart belonged exclusively to her cousin Frank. But Lord Fawn's offenses were not to be forgotten, and she continually urged upon her cousin the depth of the wrongs which she had suffered. On the part of Frank Greystock there was certainly no desire to let the undersecretary escape. It is hoped that the reader, to whom every tittle of this story has been told without reserve and every secret unfolded, will remember that others were not treated with so much open candor. The reader knows much more of Lizzie Eustace than did her cousin Frank. He indeed was not quite in love with Lizzie, but to him she was a pretty graceful young woman to whom he was bound by many ties and who had been cruelly injured. Dangerous she was doubtless, and perhaps a little artificial. To have had her married to Lord Fawn would have been a good thing, and would still be a good thing. According to all the rules known in such matters, Lord Fawn was bound to marry her. He had become engaged to her, and Lizzie had done nothing to forfeit her engagement. As to the necklace, the plea made for jolting her on that ground was a disgraceful pretext. Everybody was beginning to perceive that Mr. Camperdown would never have succeeded in getting the diamonds from her, even if they had not been stolen. It was preposterous, as Frank said over and over again to his friend Harriet, that a man when he was engaged to a lady should take upon himself to judge her conduct as Lord Fawn had done, and then ride out of his engagement on a verdict found by himself. Frank had therefore willingly displayed alacrity in pursuing his lordship, and had not been altogether without hope that he might drive the two into a marriage yet, in spite of the protestations made by Lizzie at Portray. Lord Fawn had certainly not spent a happy winter. Between Mrs. Hidaway on one side and Frank Graystock on the other, his life had been a burden to him. It had been suggested to him by various people that he was behaving badly to the lady, who was represented as having been cruelly misused by fortune and by himself. On the other hand, it had been hinted to him that nothing was too bad to believe of Lizzie Eustace, and that no calamity could be so great as that by which he would be overwhelmed were he still to allow himself to be forced into that marriage. It would be better, Mrs. Hidaway had said, to retire to Ireland at once and cultivate your domain in temporary. This was a grievous sentence, and one which had greatly excited the brother's wrath, but it had shown how very strong was his sister's opinion against the lady to whom he had unfortunately offered his hand. Then there came to him a letter from Mr. Graystock in which he was asked for his written explanation. If there be a proceeding which an official man dislikes worse than another, it is a demand for a written explanation. It is impossible, Frank had said, that your conduct to my cousin should be allowed to drop without further notice. Hers has been without reproach. Your engagement with her has been made public, chiefly by you, and it is out of the question that she should be treated as you are treating her, and that your Lordship should escape without punishment. What the punishment was to be he did not say, but there did come a punishment on Lord Vaan from the eyes of every man whose eyes met his own, and in the tones of every voice that addressed him. The looks of the very clerks in the India office accused him of behaving badly to a young woman, and the doorkeeper at the house of lords seemed to glance the scans at him. And now Lady Glencora, who was the social leader of his own party, the feminine pole-star of the liberal heavens, the most popular and the most daring woman in London, had attacked him personally and told him that he ought to call on Lady Eustace. Let it not for a moment be supposed that Lord Vaan was without conscience in the matter or indifferent to moral obligations. There was not a man in London less willing to behave badly to a young woman than Lord Vaan, or one who would more diligently struggle to get back on the right path if convinced that he was a stray. But he was one who detested interference in his private matters, and who was nearly driven mad between his sister and Frank Greystock. When he left Lady Glencora's house he walked towards his own abode with a dark cloud upon his brow. He was at first very angry with Lady Glencora. Even her position gave her no right to meddle in his most private affairs as she had done. He would resent it and would quarrel with Lady Glencora. What right could she have to advise him to call upon any woman? But by degrees this wrath died away and gave place to fears and qualms and inward questions. He too had found a change in general opinion about the diamonds. When he had taken upon himself with a high hand to dissolve his own engagement, everybody had, as he thought, acknowledged that Lizzie Eustace was keeping property which did not belong to her. Now people talked of her losses as though the diamonds had been undoubtedly her own. On the next morning Lord Fun took an opportunity of seeing Mr. Camperdown. �My dear Lord� said Mr. Camperdown, �I shall wash my hands of the matter altogether. The diamonds are gone, and the questions now are, who stole them, and where are they? In our business we can't meddle with such questions as those. You will drop the bill in chancery, then? What good can the bill do us when the diamonds are gone? If Lady Eustace had anything to do with the robbery, you suspect her then? No, my Lord, no. I cannot say that. I have no right to say that. Indeed it is not Lady Eustace that I suspect. She has got into bad hands, perhaps, but I do not think that she is a thief. You were suggesting that, if she had anything to do with the robbery? Well, yes, if she had, it would not be for us to take steps against her in the matter. In fact, the trustees have decided that they will do nothing more, and my hands are tied. If the minor, when he comes of age, claims the property from them, they will prefer to replace it. It isn't very likely, but that's what they say. But if it was an heirloom, suggested Lord Fawn, going back to the old claim. That's exploded, said Mr. Camperdown. Mr. Dove was quite clear about that. This was the end of the filing of that bill in chancery as to which Mr. Camperdown had been so very enthusiastic. Now it certainly was the case that poor Lord Fawn in his conduct towards Lizzie had trusted greatly to the support of Mr. Camperdown's legal proceeding. The world could hardly have expected him to marry a woman against whom a bill in chancery was being carried on for the recovery of diamonds which did not belong to her. But that support was now altogether withdrawn from him. It was acknowledged that the necklace was not an heirloom, clearly acknowledged by Mr. Camperdown, and even Mr. Camperdown would not express an opinion that the lady had stolen her own diamonds. How would it go with him if, after all, he were to marry her? The bone of contention between them had at any rate been made to vanish. The income was still there, and Lady Glencora Palliser had all but promised her friendship. As he entered the India office on his return from Mr. Camperdown's chambers, he almost thought that that would be the best way out of his difficulty. In his room he found his brother-in-law, Mr. Hidoway, waiting for him. It is always necessary that a man should have some friend whom he can trust in delicate affairs, and Mr. Hidoway was selected as Lord Fawn's friend. He was not at all points the man whom Lord Fawn would have chosen, but for their close connection. Mr. Hidoway was talkative, perhaps a little loud, and too apt to make capital out of every incident of his life. But confidential friends are not easily found, and one does not wish to increase the circle to whom one's family's secrets must become known. Mr. Hidoway was at any rate zealous for the Fawn family, and then his character as an official man stood high. He had been asked on the previous evening to step across from the Civil Appeal Office to give his opinion respecting that letter from Frank Graestock demanding a written explanation. The letter had been sent to him, and Mr. Hidoway had carried it home and shown it to his wife. He's a contankerous Tory and determined to make himself disagreeable, said Mr. Hidoway, taking the letter from his pocket and beginning the conversation. Lord Fawn seated himself in his great arm chair and buried his face in his hands. I am disposed after much consideration to advise you to take no notice of the letter, said Mr. Hidoway, giving his counsel in accordance with instructions received from his wife. Lord Fawn still buried his face. Of course the thing is painful, very painful, but out of two evils one should choose the least. The writer of this letter is altogether unable to carry out his threat. What can the man do to him, Mrs. Hidoway had asked, almost snapping at her husband as she did so. And then continued Mr. Hidoway, we all know that public opinion is with you altogether. The conduct of Lady Eustis is notorious. Everybody is taking her part, said Lord Fawn, almost crying. Surely not. Yes, they are. The Bill and Chancery has been withdrawn, and it's my belief that if the necklace were found tomorrow there would be nothing to prevent her keeping it, just as she did before. But it was an heirloom? No it wasn't. The lawyers were all wrong about it. As far as I can see, lawyers always are wrong. About those nine lakhs of rupees for the saw-wab, Finlay was all wrong. Campredown owns that he was wrong. If after all the diamonds were hers, I'm sure I don't know what I am to do. Thank you, Hidoway, for coming over. That'll do for the present. Just leave that Ruffian's letter, and I'll think about it. This was considered by Mrs. Hidoway to be a very bad state of things, and there was a great consternation in Warwick Square when Mr. Hidoway told his wife this new story of her brother's weakness. She was not going to be weak. She did not intend to withdraw her opposition to the marriage. She was not going to be frightened by Lizzie Eustace and Frank Graestock, knowing as she did that they were lovers and very improper lovers, too. Of course she stole them herself, said Mrs. Hidoway, and I don't doubt but she stole her own money afterwards. There's nothing she wouldn't do. I'd sooner see Frederick in his grave than married to such a woman as that. Men don't know how sly women can be, that's the truth. And Frederick has been so spoilt among them down at Richmond that he has no real judgment left. I don't suppose he means to marry her. Upon my word, I don't know, said Mr. Hidoway. Then Mrs. Hidoway made up her mind that she would at once write a letter to Scotland. There was an old lord about London in those days, or rather one who was an old liberal but a young lord, one Lord Mount Thistle, who had sat in the cabinet and had lately been made a peer when his place in the cabinet was wanted. He was a pompous, would-be-important, silly old man, well acquainted with all the traditions of his party, and perhaps on that account useful, but a bore and very apt to meddle when he was not wanted. Lady Glencora, on the day after her dinner party, whispered into his ear that Lord Fawn was getting himself into trouble, and that a few words of caution coming to him from one whom he respected so much as he did Lord Mount Thistle would be of service to him. Lord Mount Thistle had known Lord Fawn's father and declared himself at once to be quite entitled to interfere. He is really behaving badly to Lady Eustis, said Lady Glencora, and I don't think that he knows it. Lord Mount Thistle, proud of a commission from the hands of Lady Glencora, went almost at once to his old friend's son. He found him at the house that night and whispered his few words of caution in one of the lobbies. I know you will excuse me, Fawn, Lord Mount Thistle said, but people seem to think that you are not behaving quite well to Lady Eustis. What people, demanded Lord Fawn. My dear fellow, that is a question that cannot be answered. You know that I am the last man to interfere if I didn't think it my duty as a friend. You were engaged to her? Lord Fawn only frowned. If so, continued the late cabinet minister, and if you have broken it off, you ought to give your reasons. She has a right to demand as much as that. On the next morning, Friday, there came to him the note which Lady Glencora had recommended Lizzie to write. He was very short. Had you not better come and see me, you can hardly think that things should be left as they are now, L.E. Hurtford Street, Thursday. He had hoped, had ventured to hope, that things might be left and that they would arrange themselves, that he would throw aside his engagement without further trouble and that the subject would drop. But it was not so. His enemy, Frank Graystock, had demanded from him a written explanation of his conduct. Mr. Camperdown had deserted him. Lady Glencora Palliser, with whom he had not the honor of any intimate acquaintance, had taken upon herself to give him advice. Lord Mount Thistle had found fault with him. And now there had come a note from Lizzie Eustis herself, which he could hardly venture to leave altogether unnoticed. On that Friday he dined at his club and then went to his sister's house in Warwick Square. If assistance might be had anywhere, it would be from his sister. She at any rate would not want courage in carrying on the battle on his behalf. Ill-used, she said, as soon as they were closeted together, who dares to say so? That old, fool Mount Thistle has been with me. I hope, Frederick, that you don't mind what such a man as that says. He has probably been prompted by some friend of hers. And who else? Camperdown turns around now and says that they don't mean to do anything more about the necklace. Lady Glencora Palliser told me the other day that all the world believes that the thing was her own. What does Lady Glencora Palliser know about it? If Lady Glencora Palliser would find her own affairs, it would be much better for her. I remember when she had troubles enough of her own without meddling with other peoples. And now I've got this note. Lord Fawn had already shown Lizzie's few scrawled words to his sister. I think I must go and see her. Do no such thing, Frederick. Why not? I must answer it, and what can I say? If you go there, that woman will be your wife, and you'll never have a happy day again as long as you live. The match is broken off, and she knows it. I shouldn't take the slightest notice of her or of her cousin or of any of them. If she chooses to bring an action against you, that is another thing. Lord Fawn paused for a few moments before he answered. I think I ought to go, he said. And I am sure that you ought not. It is not only about the diamonds, though that was quite enough to break off any engagement. Have you forgotten what I told you that the man saw at Portray? I don't know that the man spoke the truth. But he did. And I hate that kind of espionage. It is so very likely that mistakes should be made. When she was sitting in his arms and kissing him, if you choose to do it, Frederick, of course you must. We can't prevent it. You are free to marry anyone you please. I'm not talking of marrying her. What do you suppose she wants you to go there for? As for political life, I am sure it would be the death of you. If I were you, I wouldn't go near her. You have got out of the scrape, and I would remain out. But I haven't got out, said Lord Fawn. On the next day Saturday he did nothing in the matter. He went down, as was his custom, to Richmond and did not once mention Lizzie's name. Lady Fawn and her daughters never spoke of her now, neither of her nor in his presence of poor Lucy Morris. But on his return to London on the Sunday evening he found another note from Lizzie. You will hardly have the hardy-hood to leave my note unanswered. May let me know when you will come to me. Some answer must, as he felt, be made to her. For a moment he thought of asking his mother to call, but he at once saw that by doing so he might lay himself open to terrible ridicule. Could he induce Lord Mount Thistle to be his mercury? It would, he felt, be quite impossible to make Lord Mount Thistle understand all the facts of his position. His sister, Mrs. Hidaway, might have gone, for it not that she herself was violently opposed to any visit. The more he thought of it, the more convinced he became that, should it be known that he had received two such notes from a lady, and that he had not answered or noticed them, the world would judge him to have behaved badly. So at last he wrote, on that Sunday evening, fixing a somewhat distant day for his visit to Hertford Street. His note was as follows. Lord Fawn presents his compliments to Lady Eustis, in accordance with the wish expressed in Lady Eustis's two notes of the twenty-third instant and this date, Lord Fawn will do himself the honor of waiting upon Lady Eustis on Saturday next March 3rd at twelve noon. Lord Fawn had thought that under circumstances as they now exist, no further personal interview could lead to the happiness of either party, but as Lady Eustis thinks otherwise, he feels himself constrained to comply with her desire. I am going to see her in the course of this week, he said, in answer to a further question from Lady Glencora, who, chanceing to meet him in society, had again addressed him on the subject. He lacked the courage to tell Lady Glencora to mind her own business and to allow him to do the same. Had she been a little less great than she was, either as regarded herself or her husband, she would have done so. But Lady Glencora was the social queen of the party to which he belonged, and Mr. Palliser was Chancellor of the Exchequer and would some day be Duke of Omnium. As you are great, be merciful, Lord Fawn, said Lady Glencora. You men, I believe, never realize what it is that women feel when they love. It is my belief that she will die unless you are reunited to her, and then she is so beautiful. It is a subject I cannot discuss, Lady Glencora. I dare say not, and I am sure I am the last person to wish to give you pain. But you see, if the poor lady has done nothing to merit your anger, it does seem rather a strong measure to throw her off and give her no reason whatever. How would you defend yourself suppose she published it all? Lady Glencora's courage was very great, and perhaps we may say her impudence also. This last question Lord Fawn left unanswered, walking away in great dudgeon. In the course of the week he told his sister of the interview which he had promised, and she endeavored to induce him to postpone it till a certain man should arrive from Scotland. She had written for Mr. Andrew Gowren sending down funds for Mr. Gowren's journey so that her brother might hear Mr. Gowren's evidence out of Mr. Gowren's own mouth. Should not Frederick postpone the interview till he should have seen Mr. Gowren? But to this request Frederick declined to a seed. He had fixed a day and an hour. He had made an appointment. Of course he must keep it. CHAPTER 57 HUMPTY DUMPTY The robbery at the house in Hartford Street took place on the 30th of January, and on the morning of the 28th of February, Bunfit and Gager were sitting together in a melancholy, dark little room in Scotland Yard, discussing the circumstances of that nefarious act. A month had gone by, and nobody was yet in custody. A month had passed since that second robbery, but nearly eight weeks had passed since the robbery at Carlisle, and even that was still a mystery. The newspapers had been loud in their condemnation of the police. It had been asserted over and over again that in no other civilized country in the world could so great an amount of property have passed through the hands of thieves without leaving some clue by which the police would have made their way to the truth. Gager Macintosh had been declared to be altogether incompetent, and all the Bunfits and Gagers of the force had been spoken of as drones, and moles, and ostriches. They were idle and blind, and so stupid as to think that when they saw nothing others saw less. The Major, who was a broad-shouldered philosophical man, bore all this as though it were of necessity a part of the birthing of his profession. But the Bunfits and Gagers were very angry and at their wits' ends. It did not occur to them to feel animosity against the newspapers which abused them. The thieves who would not be caught were their great enemies, and there was common to them a conviction that men so obstinate as these thieves, men to whom a large amount of grace and liberty for indulgence had accrued, should be treated with uncommon severity when they were caught. There was this excuse always on their lips, that had it been an affair simply of thieves, such as thieves ordinarily are, everything would have been discovered long since. But when lords and ladies with titles come to be mixed up with such an affair, folk in whose house a policeman can't have his will at searching and brow-beating, how is a detective to detect anything? Bunfit and Gager had both been driven to recast their theories as to the great Carlisle affair by the circumstances of the later affair in Hartford Street. They both thought that Lord George had been concerned in the robbery. That indeed had now become the general opinion of the world at large. He was a man of doubtful character, with large expenses, and with no recognized means of living. He had formed a great intimacy with Lady Eustace, at a period in which she was known to be carrying these diamonds about with her, had been staying with her at Portray Castle, when the diamonds were there, and had been her companion on the journey during which the diamonds were stolen. The only men in London supposed to be capable of dealing advantageously with such a property were Harter and Benjamin, as to whom it was known that they were conversant with the existence of the diamonds, and known also that they were in the habit of having dealings with Lord George. It was moreover known that Lord George had been closeted with Mr. Benjamin on the morning after his arrival in London. These things put together made it almost a certainty that Lord George had been concerned in the matter. Bunford had always been sure of it. Gager, though differing much from Bunford as to details, had never been unwilling to suspect Lord George. But the facts known could not be got to dovetail themselves pleasantly. If Lord George had possessed himself of the diamonds at Carlisle, or with Lizzie's connivance before they reached Carlisle, then why had there been a second robbery? Bunford, who was very profound in his theory, suggested that the second robbery was an additional plant, got up with the view of throwing more dust into the eyes of the police. Patience Crabstick had, of course, been one of the gang throughout, and she had now been allowed to go off with her mistress's money and lesser trinkets, so that the world of Scotland Yard might be thrown more and more into the mire of ignorance and darkness of doubt. To this view, Gager was altogether opposed. He was inclined to think that Lord George had taken the diamonds at Carlisle with Lizzie's connivance, that he had restored them in London to her keeping, finding the suspicion against him too heavy to admit of his dealing with them, and that now he had stolen them a second time, again with Lizzie's connivance, but in this latter point Gager did not pretend to the assurance of any conviction. But Gager at the present moment had achieved a triumph in the matter which he was not at all disposed to share with his elder officer. Perhaps on the whole more power is lost than gained by habits of secrecy, to be discreet as a fine thing, especially for a policeman. But when discretion is carried to such a length in the direction of self-confidence as to produce a belief that no aid is wanted for the achievement of great results, it will often militate against all achievement. Had Scotland Yard been less discreet and more confidential, the mystery might, perhaps, have been sooner unraveled. Gager at this very moment had reason to believe that a man whom he knew could, and would, if operated upon duly, communicate to him, Gager, the secret of the present whereabouts of patient's crab-stick. That belief was a great possession, and much too important, as Gager thought, to be shared lightly with such an one as Mr. Bunfit, a thick-headed sort of man, in Gager's opinion, although no doubt he had by means of industry had been successful in some difficult cases. His lordship ain't stirred, said Bunfit. How do you mean stirred, Mr. Bunfit? Ain't moved nowhere's out of London. What should he move out of London for? What could he get by cutting? There ain't nothing so bad when anything's up against one as letting on that one wants to bolt. He knows all that. He'll stand his ground. He won't bolt. I don't suppose as he will, Gager. It's a rum go, ain't it? The rummest desire I ever see. This remark had been made so often by Mr. Bunfit that Gager had become almost weary of hearing it. Oh, rum, rumby, but what's the use of all that? From what the governor told me this morning, there isn't a shadow of doubt where the diamonds are. In Paris, of course, said Bunfit, they never went to Paris. They were taken from here to Hamburg in a commercial man's kit. The fellow was travels in knives and scissors. Then they was recat. They say the cutting was the quickest bit of work ever done by one man in Hamburg. And now they're in New York. That's what was come of the diamonds. Benjamin in course, said Bunfit on a low whisper, just taking the pipe from between his lips. Well, yes, no doubt it was Benjamin. But how did Benjamin get him? Lord George in course, said Bunfit. And how did he get him? Well, that's where it is, isn't it? Then there was a pause during which Bunfit continued to smoke. As sure as your name's gaeger, he got them at Carlisle. And what took Smiler down to Carlisle? Just to put a face on it, said Bunfit. And who cut the door? Billy can did, said Bunfit. And who forced the box? Them two did, said Bunfit. And ought to put a face on it. Yes, just that. And an uncommon good face, they did put on it between them, the best as I ever see. All right, said gaeger, so far so good. I don't agree with you, Mr. Bunfit, because the thing, when it was done, wouldn't be worth the money. Lord love you, what would all that have cost? And what was to prevent the lady and Lord George together, taking the diamonds to Benjamin and getting their price? It never does to be too clever, Mr. Bunfit. When that was all done, why did the lady go and get herself robbed again? Nah, I don't say but what you're a clever man in your way, Mr. Bunfit, but you've not got a hold of the thing here. Why was Smiler going about like a mad dog? Only that he found himself took in. Maybe you expected something else in the box, more than the necklace, as was to come to him, suggested Bunfit. Gaman! I don't see why you say Gaman, gaeger. It ain't polite. It is Gaman running away with ideas like them just as if he was one of the public. When they two opened that box at Carlisle, which they did as certain as you sit there, they believed as the diamonds were there. They were not there. I don't think as they was, said Bunfit. Very well. Where were they? Just walk up to it, Mr. Bunfit, making your ground good as you go. They two men cut the door and took the box and opened it. And when they opened it, they didn't get the swag. Where was the swag? Lord George, said Bunfit again. Very well. Lord George, like enough. But it comes to this. Benjamin and they two men of his had laid themselves out for the robbery. Now, Mr. Bunfit, whether Lord George and Benjamin were together in that first affair or whether they weren't, I can't see my way just at present. And I don't know as you can see yours, not saying but what yours quick as most men, Mr. Bunfit. If he was, and I rather think that's about it, then he and Benjamin must have had a few words and he must have got the jewels from the lady overnight. Of course he did. And Smala and Billy Can knew as they weren't there. There you are. All back again, Mr. Bunfit, not making your ground good as you go. Smala and Can did their job according to order and precious sore hearts they had when they got the box open. Those fellows at Carlisle, just like all the provincials, went to work open mouthed and before the party had left Carlisle, it was known that Lord George was suspected. You can't trust them fellows anyway, said Mr. Bunfit. Well, what happens next? Lord George, he goes to Benjamin, but he isn't going to take the diamonds with him. He has add words with Benjamin or he has not. Anyways, he isn't going to take the necklace with him on that morning. He hasn't been going to keep the diamonds about him, not since what was up at Carlisle. So he gives the diamonds back to the lady and she had him all along. I don't say it was so, but I can see my way upon that hypothesis. There was something as she had to conceal, Gager. I'll set that all through. I knew it in the moment when I see her faint. She's had a deal to conceal, I don't doubt. Well, there they are with her still. The box is gone, the people as he's bringing the lawsuit as to cap her down and the rest of them as off their tack. What she had to do with them? Tie him to Benjamin, said Bunfit, with confidence. That's all very well, Mr. Bunfit, but there's a quarrel up already with Benjamin. Benjamin was to have had him before. Benjamin has spent a goodish bit of money and has been thrown over rather. I dare say Benjamin was as bad a smiler, or worse. No doubt Benjamin let on the smiler and thought a smiler was too many for him. I dare say there was a few words between him and Smiler. I wouldn't wonder if Smiler didn't threaten to punch Benjamin's head, which, well, he could do it. And if there wasn't a few playful remarks between them about penal servitude for life. You see, Mr. Bunfit, it couldn't have been pleasant for any of them. They'd have split, said Bunfit, but they didn't. Not downright. Well, there we are. The diamonds is with the lady, Lord George has done it all. Lord George and Lady Eustace. They're keeping company, no doubt, after their own fashion. Is a Robin of her and she has to do pretty much as she's bid. The diamonds is with the lady and Lord George is pretty well afraid to look at him. After all, that's being done. There isn't much to wonder at in that. Then comes the second robbery. And Lord George planned that too, asked Bunfit. I don't pretend to say I know. I just put it this way, Mr. Bunfit. Of course, the thieves were let in by the woman Crabstick. Not a doubt. Of course they were Smiler and Billy Can. I suppose they was. She was always about the lady, a doing for her and everything. Say she goes to Benjamin and tells him as our lady still has the necklace and then he puts up the second robbery. Then you'd have it all round. And Lord George would have lost him. Can't be. Lord George and Eustace up to this day. Very well, I don't say anything against that. Lord George knows as she has him. Indeed, he'd given him back to her to keep. We've got as far as that, Mr. Bunfit. I think she did have him. Very well. What does Lord George do then? He can't make money of him. They're too hot for his fingers and so he finds when he thinks of taking him into the market. So he puts Benjamin up to the second robbery. Who's drawn it far now, Gager, eh? Mr. Bunfit, I'm not saying as I've got the truth beyond this that Benjamin and his two men were cleaned down at Carlyle, that Lord George and his lady brought the jewels up to town between them and that the party who didn't get them at Carlyle tried their hand again and did get them in Arkford Street, in all of which the ingenious Gager would have been right. If he could have kept his mind clear from the alluring conviction that a Lord had been the chief of the thieves. We shall never make a case of it now, said Bunfit, despondently. I mean to try it on all the same. This smiler about town as bold as brass and dressed to the nines. He had the cheek to tell me was going down at the new market spring to look after all she's got a share in. I was talking to Billy only yesterday, that did Bunfit. I've got it on my mind that they didn't treat Billy quite on the square. He didn't let on anything about Benjamin, but he told me out plain as though he was very much disgusted, Mr. Bunfit, said he. There's that roguery about that a plain man like me can't touch it. There's them as I picked my eyes out while I was sleeping and then swear it against me very self. Then were his words. And I knew as our Benjamin hadn't been on the square with him. You didn't let on anything, Mr. Bunfit. Well, I just reminded him as though there was five hundred pounds going a begging for Mr. Campedown. And what did he say to that, Mr. Bunfit? Well, he said a good deal. He's a sharp little fellow, is Billy, has as read a deal. You've heard of umpty-dumpty, Gager. Umpty-dumpty was a hag. All right. As that a fall and was smashed, and there's a little poem about him. I know. Well, Billy says to me, Mr. Campedown don't want no information. He wants the diamonds. Them diamonds is like umpty-dumpty, Mr. Bunfit. All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put umpty-dumpty up again. Billy was about right there. So the younger officer rising from his seat. Late on the afternoon of the same day, when London had already been given over to the gas lights, Mr. Gager, having dressed himself especially for the occasion of the friendly visit which he intended to make, sauntered into a small public house at the corner of Meek Street and Pineapple Court, which locality, as all men well versed with London are aware, lies within one minute's walk of the top of Grey's Inn Lane. Gager, during his conference with his colleague, Bunfit, had been dressed in plain black clothes. But in spite of his plain clothes, he looked every inch a policeman. There was a stiffness about his limbs, and at the same time a sharpness in his eyes, which, in the conjunction with the locality in which he was placed, declared his profession beyond the possibility of mistake. Nor in that locality would he have desired to be taken for anything else. But as he entered the rising sun in Meek Street, there was nothing of the policeman about him. He might probably have been taken for a betting man with whom the world had laterally gone well enough to enable him to maintain that sleek, easy, greasy appearance which seems to be the bow-eye deal of a betting man's personal ambition. Well, Mr. Howard, said the lady at the bar, a sight of you is good for sore eyes. Sixpenith a brandy, warm, if you please, my dear, said the pseudo-Howard, as he strolled easily into an inner room with which he seemed to be quite familiar. He seated himself in an old-fashioned wooden armchair, gazed up at the gas-lamp, and stirred his liquor slowly. Occasionally he raised the glass to his lips, but he did not seem to be at all intent upon his drinking. When he entered the room, there had been a gentleman and a lady there whose festive moments seemed to be disturbed by some slight disagreement. But Howard, as he gazed at the lamp, paid no attention to them whatever. They soon left the room, their quarrel and their drink finished together, and others dropped in and out. Mr. Howard's warm must almost have become cold, so long did he sit there gazing at the gas-lamps, rather than attending to his brandy and water. Not a word did he speak to any one for more than an hour, and not a sign did he show of impatience. At last he was alone, but had not been so for above a minute when in stepped a jaunty little man, certainly not more than five feet high, about three or four and twenty years of age, dressed with great care with his trousers sticking to his legs, with a French chimney-pot hat on his head, very much peaked fore and aft, and closely turned up at the sides. He had a bright-coloured silk handkerchief round his neck, and a white shirt, of which the collar and wristbands were rather larger and longer than suited the small dimensions of the man. He wore a white greatcoat, tight-buttoned round his waist, but so ranged as to show the glories of the coloured handkerchief, and in his hand he carried a diminutive cane with a little silver knob. He stepped airily into the room, and as he did so he addressed our friend the policeman with much cordiality. "'My dear Howard,' he said, "'this is a pleasure. "'This is a pleasure. "'This is a pleasure.' "'What is it to be?' asked Gager. "'Well, I—what? "'And shall I say a little port wine, Nagus, "'with the nutmeg in it, rather strong?' This suggestion he made to a young lady from the bar who had followed him into the room. The Nagus was brought and paid for by Gager, who then requested that they might be left there undisturbed for five minutes. The young lady promised to do her best and then close the door. "'And now, Mr. Howard, what can I do for you?' said Mr. Ken, the burglar. Gager, before he answered, took a pipe case out of his pocket and lit the pipe. "'Will you smoke, Billy?' said he. "'Well, no. "'I don't know that I will smoke. "'A very little tobacco goes a long way with me, Mr. Howard. "'One cigar before I turn in? "'That's about the outside of it. "'You see, Mr. Howard, pleasures should never be made necessities "'when the circumstances of a gentleman's life "'may perhaps require that they shall be abandoned "'for prolonged periods. "'In your line of life, Mr. Howard, "'which has its objections, "'smoking may be pretty well a certainty.'" Mr. Ken, as he made these remarks, skipped about the room and gave point to his argument by touching Mr. Howard's waistcoat with the end of his cane. "'And now, Billy, how about the young woman?' "'I haven't seen eyes on her these six weeks, Mr. Howard. "'I'll never see her but once in my life, Mr. Howard, "'or maybe twice, for one's memory is deceitful "'and I don't know that I ever wish to see her again. "'She ain't one of my sort, Mr. Howard. "'I like some soft and sweet and coming. "'This one, she has a good point about her, "'as clean a foot, ankle, as I'd ever wish to see, "'but laws, what I know, Mr. Howard. "'And then, for manner, she's no more manner "'than a stable dog.' "'She's in London, Billy.' "'How am I to know, Mr. Howard?' "'What's the good, then, of your coming ear?' "'Ask Gager with no little severity in his voice. "'I don't know as it is good. "'I haven't said nothing about any good, Mr. Howard. "'What you want to find is them diamonds.' "'Of course I do. "'Well, you won't find them. "'I know there's nothing about them in course, "'except as what I'm told. "'You know my line of life, Mr. Howard. "'Not a doubt about it. "'And I know yours. "'I'm in the way of hearing about these things. "'And for the matter of that, so are you, too. "'It may be my ears all the longer. "'I have heard. "'You don't expect me to tell you more than just that I have heard. "'It was a pretty thing, wasn't it? "'But I wasn't in it myself. "'All's the pity. "'Can't expect fear other than that, Mr. Howard. "'And what have you heard? "'The diamonds is gone, but none of you can get at him. "'That five hundred pounds, as the lawyers have offered, "'is just nowhere. "'If you want information, Mr. Howard, "'you should say information. "'And you could give it, eh, Billy? "'No, no!' he uttered these two negatives in a low voice and with much deliberation. "'I couldn't give it. "'A man can't give what he hasn't got. "'But perhaps I could get it. "'What an arse you are, Billy. "'Don't you know that I know all about it? "'What an arse you are, Mr. Howard? "'Don't I know that you don't know? "'Or you wouldn't come to me? "'You guess? "'You're always a guessing. "'And because you know how to guess, they pay you for guessing. "'But guessing ain't knowing. "'You don't know, nor yet don't I. "'What is it to be, if I find out where that young woman is?' "'A tenner, Billy. "'Five quid now, and five when you've seen her. "'All right, Billy? "'She's going to be married to smaller next Sunday "'as ever is down at Ramsgate. "'At Ramsgate she is now. "'You'll find, O Mr. Howard, if you'll keep your eyes open, "'somewhere about the fiddle with one string.' "'This information was so far recognized by Mr. Howard as correct, "'that he paid Mr. Cann five sovereigns down for it at once. "'End of Chapter 57. "'Chapter 58 of the Eustace Diamonds.' "'This is a LibriVox recording. "'All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. "'For more information or to volunteer, "'please visit LibriVox.org.' "'Recorded by Mill Nicholson. "'The Eustace Diamonds by Anthony Chollop. "'Chapter 58, the fiddle with one string. "'Mr. Gager reached Ramsgate by the earliest train "'on the following morning, "'and was not long in finding out the fiddle with one string. "'The fiddle with one string was a public house, "'very humble in appearance, "'in the outskirts of the town, "'on the road leading to Pegwell Bay.' "'On this occasion, Mr. Gager was dressed "'in his ordinary plain clothes, "'and though the policeman's calling "'might not be so manifestly declared by his appearance "'at Ramsgate, as it was in Scotland Yard, "'still, let a hint in that direction have ever been given, "'and the ordinary citizens of Ramsgate "'would at once be convinced that the man was what he was. "'Gager had doubtless considered all the circumstances "'of his day's work carefully, "'and had determined that success would more probably "'attend him with this than with any other line of action. "'He walked at once into the house, "'and asked whether a young woman was not lodging there. "'The man of the house was behind the bar, with his wife, "'and to him Gager whispered a few words. "'The man stood dumb for a moment, and then his wife spoke. "'What's up now?' said she. "'There's no young women here. "'We don't have no young women.' Then the man whispered a word to his wife, "'during which Gager stood among the customers "'before the bar with an easy, unembarrassed air. "'Well, what's he holds?' said the wife. "'There ain't nothing wrong with us.' "'Never thought there was mom,' said Gager, "'and there's nothing wrong as I know with the young woman.' Then the husband and wife consulted together, and Mr. Gager was asked to take a seat in a little parlour, while the woman ran upstairs for half an instant. Gager looked about him quickly, and took in at a glance the system of the construction of the fiddle with one string. He did sit down in the little parlour with the door open, and remained there for perhaps a couple of minutes. Then he went to the front door and glanced up at the roof. "'He's all right,' said the keeper of the house following him. "'She ain't a going to get away. "'She ain't just very well, and she's a lying down.' "'You tell her with my regards,' said Gager, "'that she needn't be a bit the worst because of me.' The man looked at him suspiciously. "'You tell her what I say, "'and tell her too, the quicker the better.' "'She has a gentleman looking after her, I dare say. "'Perhaps I'd better be off before he comes.' The message was taken up to the lady, and Gager again seated himself in the little parlour. We're often told that all is fair in love and war, and perhaps the operation on which Mr. Gager was now intent may be regarded as warlike. But he now took advantage of a certain softness in the character of the lady whom he wished to meet, which hardly seems to be justifiable even in a policeman. When Lizzie's tall footman had been in trouble about the necklace, a photograph had been taken from him, which had not been restored to him. This was a portrait of Patience Crabstick, which she, poor girl, in a tender moment, had given to him, who, had not things gone roughly with them, was to have been her lover. The little picture had fallen into Gager's hands, and he now pulled it from his pocket. He himself had never visited the house in Hartford Street till after the Second Robbery, and, in the flesh, had not as yet seen Miss Crabstick. But he had studied her face carefully, expecting, or at any rate hoping, that he might some day enjoy the pleasure of personal acquaintance. That pleasure was now about to come to him, and he prepared himself for it by making himself intimate with the lines of the lady's face, as the sun had portrayed them. There was even yet some delay, and Mr. Gager more than once testified uneasiness. She ain't gonna get away to the mistress of the house, but a lady as he's going to see a gentleman can't jump into her things as a man does. Gager intimated his acquiescence in all this, and again waited. As soon as she comes, the less trouble for her, said Gager to the woman, if you lonely might you believe that. At last, when he had been somewhat over an hour in the house, he was asked to walk upstairs, and then, in a little sitting-room over the bar, he had the opportunity, so much desired, of making personal acquaintance with patient's crab-stick. It may be imagined that the poor waiting-woman had not been in a happy state of mind, since she had been told that a gentleman was waiting to see her downstairs, who had declared himself to be a policeman immediately on entering the shop. To escape was, of course, her first idea, but she was soon made to understand that this was impracticable. In the first place, there was but one staircase, at the bottom of which was the open door of the room in which the policeman was sitting, and then the woman at the house was very firm in declaring that she would connive at nothing which might cost her and her husband their license. You've got to face it, said the woman. I suppose they can't make me get out of bed unless our pleas is, said patient's family, but she knew that even that resource would fail her, and that a policeman, when aggravated, can take upon him all the duties of a lady's maid. She had to face it. And she did face it. I've just got to have a few words with you, my dear, said Gager. I suppose, then, we'd better be alone, said patient's, whereupon the woman of the house discreetly left the room. The interview was so long that the reader would be fatigued where he asked to study a record of all that was said on the occasion. The gentleman and lady were closeted together for more than an hour, and so amicably was the conversation carried on, that when the time was half over, Gager stepped downstairs and interested himself in procuring Miss Crabstick's breakfast. He even condescended himself to pick a few shrimps and drink a glass of beer in her company. A great deal was said, and something was even settled, as maybe learnt from a few concluding words of that very memorable conversation. Just don't you say anything about him, my dear, but leave word for him that you've gone up to town on business. Lord love you, Mr. Gager. He'll know all about it. Let him know. Of course he'll know if he comes down. It's my belief he'll never show himself at Ramsgate again. But, Mr. Gager, well, my dear, you aren't a perjurer of yourself. What? About making you my wife? That I ain't. I'm upright and always was. There's no mistake about me when you've got my word. As soon as this work is off me mind, you shall be Mrs. Gager, my dear. And you be all right. You've been took in. That's what you have. That I have, Mr. Gager, said patience, wiping her eyes. You've been took in, and you must be forgiven. I didn't get nothing out of the necklace, and as for the other things, they frighted me so that I'll let them all go for just what I tell you. And as for Mr. Smiler, I never didn't care for him. That I didn't. He ain't the man to touch my heart, not at all. And it was not likely, either. A plain fellow, very, Mr. Gager. He'll be plainer before long, my dear. But I've been that worriedly among them, Mr. Gager, since first they made their wicked prepositions, that I've been just... I don't know how I've been. And now my lady was not a lady as any girl could like, and did deserve to ever things took if any body's things ever should be took. Still, Mr. Gager, I know's I did wrong. I do know it, and I'm repenting of it in sackcloth and ashes. So I am. But you'll be as good as your word, Mr. Gager. It must be acknowledged that Mr. Gager had bitten high for success, and had allowed himself to be carried away by his zeal almost to the verge of imprudence. It was essential to him that he should take patience-crab-stick back with him to London, and that he should take her as a witness, and not as a criminal. Mr. Benjamin was the game at which he was flying. Mr. Benjamin, and, if possible, Lord George, and he conceived that his net might be big enough to hold Smiler, as well as the other two greater fishers, if he could induce patience-crab-stick and Billy Cairne to cooperate with him cordially in his fishing. But his mind was still disturbed on one point. Let impress his beloved patience, as closely as he might with questions, there was one point on which he could not get from her, what he believed to be the truth. She persisted that Lord George de Bruisque, or others, had had no hand in either robbery. And Gager had so firmly committed himself to a belief on this matter that he could not throw the idea away from him, even on the testimony of patience-crab-stick. On that evening he returned triumphant to Scotland Yard with patience-crab-stick under his wing, and that lady was housed there with every comfort she could desire, except that of personal liberty. End of chapter fifty-eight In the meantime Mrs. Hittaway was diligently spreading a report that Lizzie Eustace either was engaged to marry her cousin Frank, or ought to be so engaged. This she did no doubt with the sole object of saving her brother, but she did it with a zeal that dealt her freely with Frank's name as with Lizzie's. They, with all their friends, were her enemies, and she was quite sure that they were altogether a wicked, degraded set of people. Of Lord George and Mrs. Carbunkle, of Miss Roanoke and Sir Griffin Tewitt, she believed all manner of evil. She had theories of her own about the jewels, stories, probably of her own manufacturer in part, although no doubt she believed them to be true, as to the manner of living at Portray, little histories of Lizzie's debts, and the great fact of the scene which Mr. Goweron had seen with his own eyes. Lizzie Eustace was an abomination to her, and this abominable woman, her brother was again in danger of marrying. She was very loud in her denunciations, and took care that they should reach even Lady Linlithgow, so that poor Lucy Morris might know of what sort was the lover in whom she trusted. Andy Goweron had been sent for to town, and was on his journey while Mr. Gager was engaged at Ramsgate. It was at present the great object of Mrs. Hittaway's life to induce her brother to see Mr. Goweron, before he kept his appointment with Lady Eustace. Poor Lucy received the wound which was intended for her. The enemy's weapons had repeatedly struck her, but hitherto they had alighted on the strong shield of her faith. But let a shield be never so strong, it may at last be battered out of all form and service. On Lucy's shield there had been much of such batterings, and the blows which had come from him in whom she most trusted had not been the lightest. She had not seen him for months, and his letters were short, unsatisfactory, and rare. She had declared to herself and to her friend Lady Thorn that no concurrence of circumstances, no absence however long, no rumours that might reach her ears, would make her doubt the man she loved. She was still steadfast in the same resolution, but in spite of her resolution her heart began to fail her. She became weary, unhappy, and ill at ease, and though she would never acknowledge to herself that she doubted, she did doubt. So, after all, your Mr. Graystock is to marry my niece Lizzie Graystock. This good-natured speech was made one morning to poor Lucy by her present patroness, Lady Lilithko. I rather think not, said Lucy, plucking up her spirits and smiling as she spoke. Everybody says so. As for Lizzie, she has become quite a heroine. What was her necklace, and her two robberies, and her hunting, and her various lovers, two lords, and a member of Parliament, my dear? There is nothing to equal her. Lady Glencora Palliser has been calling on her. She took care to let me know that. And now I am told that she certainly is engaged to her cousin. According to your own showing, Lady Lilithko, she has got two other lovers. Couldn't you oblige me by letting her marry one of the lords? I am afraid, my dear, that Mr. Graystock is to be the chosen one. Then, after a pause, the old woman became serious. What is the use, Miss Morris, of not looking the truth in the face? Mr. Graystock is neglecting you. He is not neglecting me. You won't let him come to see me. Certainly not. But if he were not neglecting you, you would not be here. And there he is, with Lizzie Eustace, every day of his life. He can't afford to marry you, and he can afford to marry her. It's a deal better that you should look it all in the face and know what it must all come to. I shall just wait, and never believe a word, till he speaks it. You hardly know what men are, my dear. Very likely not, Lady Lilithko. It may be that I shall have to pay dear for learning. Of course, I may be mistaken, as well as another. Only I don't believe I am mistaken. When this little scene took place, only a month remained of the time for which Lucy's services were engaged to Lady Lilithko, and no definite arrangement had been made as her future residence. Lady Fawn was prepared to give her a home, and to Lady Fawn, as it seemed, she must go. Lady Lilithko had declared herself unwilling to continue the existing arrangement, because, as she said, it did not suit her that her companion should be engaged to marry her late sister's nephew. Not a word had been said about the denary for the last month or two, and Lucy, though her hopes in that direction had once been good, was far too high-spirited to make any suggestion herself as to her reception by her lover's family. In the ordinary course of things she would have to look out for another situation like any other governess in want of a place, but she could do this only by consulting Lady Fawn, and Lady Fawn, when consulted, would always settle the whole matter by simply bidding her young friend to come to Fawn Court. There must be some end of her living at Fawn Court. So much Lucy told herself over and over again. It could be but a temporary measure. If—if—it was to be her fate to be taken away from Fawn Court a happy, glorious triumphant bride, then the additional obligation put upon her by her dear friends would not be more than she could bear. But to go to Fawn Court, and by degrees to have it acknowledged that another place must be found for her would be very bad. She would infinitely prefer any intermediate hardship. How then should she know? As soon as she was able to escape from the Countess, she went up to her own room and wrote the following letter. She studied the words with great care she wrote them, sitting and thinking before she allowed her pen to run on the paper. My dear Frank, it is a long time since we met, is it not? I do not write this as a reproach, but because my friends tell me that I should not continue to think myself engaged to you. They say that, situated as you are, you cannot afford to marry a penniless girl, and that I ought not to wish you to sacrifice yourself. I do understand enough of your affairs to know that an imprudent marriage may ruin you, and I certainly do not wish to be the cause of injury to you. All I ask is that you should tell me the truth. It is not that I am impatient, but that I must decide what to do with myself when I leave Lady Linlithgow. Your most affectionate friend, Lucy Morris, March 2, 18 something. She read this letter over and over again, thinking of all that it said and of all that it omitted to say. She was at first half-disposed to make protestations of forgiveness, to assure him that not even within her own heart would she reproach him, should he feel himself bound to retract the promise he had made her. She longed to break out into love, but so to express her love that her lover should know that it was strong enough, even to sacrifice itself, for his sake. But though her hearts long to speak freely, her judgment told her that it would be better that she should be reticent and tranquil in her language. Any warmth on her part would be in itself a reproach to him. If she really wished to assist him in extricating himself from a difficulty into which he had fallen in her behalf, she would best do so by offering him his freedom in the fewest and plainest words which she could select. But even when the letter was written, she doubted us to the wisdom of sending it. She kept it that she might sleep upon it. She did sleep upon it, and when the morning came she would not send it. Had not absolute faith in her lover been the rock upon which she had declared to herself that she would build the house of her future hopes? Had she not protested again and again that no caution from others should induce her to waver in her belief? Was it not her great doctrine to trust, to trust implicitly, even though all should be lost if her trust should be misplaced? And was it well that she should depart from all this merely because it might be convenient for her to make arrangements as to the coming months? If it were to be her fate to be rejected, thrown over, and deceived, of what used to her could be any future arrangements, all to her would be ruined, and it would matter to her nothing with which she should be taken. And then why should she lie to him as she would lie in sending such a letter? If he did throw her over he would be a traitor, and her heart would be full of reproaches. Whatever might be his future lot in life he owed it to her to share it with her, and if he evaded his debt he would be a traitor and a miscreant. She would never tell him so. She would be far too proud to condescend to spoken all written reproaches, but she would know that it would be so, and why should she lie to him by saying that it would not be so? Thinking of all this, when the morning came, she left the letter lying within her desk. Lord Fawn was to call upon Lady Eustis on the Saturday, and on Friday afternoon Mr. Andrew Gowran was in Mrs. Hitaway's back parlor in Warwick Square. After many efforts and with much persuasion the brother had agreed to see his sister's great witness. Lord Fawn had felt that he would lower himself by any intercourse with such a one as Andy Gowran in regard to the conduct of the woman whom he had proposed to make his wife, and had endeavoured to avoid the meeting. He had been angry, piteous, haughty, and sullen by turns. But Mrs. Hitaway had overcome him by dogged perseverance, and poor Lord Fawn had at last consented. He was to come to Warwick Square as soon as the house was up on Friday evening and dine there. Before dinner he was to be introduced to Mr. Gowran. Andy arrived at the house at half-past five, and after some conversation with Mrs. Hitaway was left there all alone to await the coming of Lord Fawn. He was, in appearance and manners, very different from the Andy Gowran familiarly known among the braze and crafts of Portray. He had a heavy, stiff hat which he carried in his hand. He wore a black swallowtail coat and black trousers, and a heavy red waistcoat buttoned up nearly to his throat, round which was tightly tied a dingy black silk handkerchief. At Portray no man was more voluble, no man more self-confident, no man more equal to his daily occupations than Andy Gowran. But the unaccustomed clothes and the journey to London and the townhouses overcame him, and for a while almost silenced him. Mrs. Hitaway found him silent, cautious and timid. Not knowing what to do with him, fearing to ask him to go and eat in the kitchen and not liking to have meat and unlimited drink brought for him into the parlour, she directed the servant to supply him with a glass of sherry and a couple of biscuits. He had come an hour before the time named, and there, with nothing to cheer him beyond these slight creature comforts, he was to wait all alone till Lord Forne should be ready to see him. Andy had seen lords before. Lords are not rarer in Ayrshire than in other Scotch counties, and then had not Lord George de Bruce Carrovers been staying at Portray half the winter. But Lord George was not to Andy a real Lord, and then a Lord down in his own county was so much less to him than a Lord up in London. And this Lord was a Lord of Parliament and a Government Lord, and might probably have the power of hanging such a one as Andy Gower and were he to commit perjury or say anything which the Lord might choose to call perjury. What it was that Lord Forne wished him to say, he could not make himself sure. That the Lord's sister wished him to prove Lady Eustace to be all that was bad, he knew very well. But he thought that he was able to perceive that the brother and sister were not at one, and more than once during his journey up to London he had almost made up his mind that he would turn tail and go back to Portray. No doubt there was enmity between him and his mistress, but then his mistress did not attempt to hurt him even though he had insulted her grossly, and were she to tell him to leave her service, it would be from Mr John Eustace, and not from Mrs Hittaway, that he must look for the continuation of his employment. Nevertheless, he had taken Mrs Hittaway's money, and there he was. At half-past seven Lord Forne was brought into the room by his sister, and Andy Gowerne, rising from his chair, three times ducked his head. Mr Gowerne, said Mrs Hittaway, my brother is desirous that you should tell him exactly what you have seen of Lady Eustace's conduct down at Portray. You may speak quite freely, and I know you will speak truly. Andy again ducked his head. Frederick, continued the Lady, I am sure that you may implicitly believe all that Mr Gowerne will say to you. Then Mrs Hittaway left the room, as her brother had expressly stipulated that she should do. Lord Forne was quite at a loss how to begin, and Andy was by no means prepared to help him. If I am rightly informed, said the Lord, you have been for many years employed on the Portray property. Are my life so please your lurchep? Just so, just so. And, of course, interested in the welfare of the Eustace family. And being an honest man have felt sorrow that the Portray property should should should that anything bad should happen to it. Andy nodded his head, and Lord Forne perceived that he was nowhere near the beginning of his matter. Lady Eustace is at present your mistress. Just in a fashion will erd, as a man may see. That is, she is, and she is, ne. There's a many things that Portray has had to be looked after. She pays your wages, said Lord Forne shortly. Eh, wages? Yes, my lord, she does all that. Then she's your mistress. Andy again nodded his head, and Lord Forne again struggled to find some way in which he might approach his subject. Her cousin, Mr Graystock, has been staying at Portray lately. More cootie than cousin, eh? said Andy, winking his eye. It was dreadful to Lord Forne that the man should wink his eye at him. He did not quite understand what Andy had last said, but he did understand that some accusation as to indecent familiarity with her cousin was intended to be brought by this scotch steward against the woman to whom he had engaged himself. Every feeling of his nature revolted against the task before him, and he found that on trial it became absolutely impracticable. He could not bring himself to inquire minutely as to poor Lizzie's flirting down among the rocks. He was weak and foolish, and in many respects ignorant, but he was a gentleman. As he got nearer to the point which it had been intended that he should reach, the more he hated Andy Garen, and the more he hated himself for having submitted to such contact. He paused a moment, and then he declared the conversation was at an end. I think that will do, Mr. Garen, he said. I don't know that you can tell me anything I want to hear. I think you'd better go back to Scotland." So, saying, he left Andy alone and stalked up to the drawing-room. When he entered it, both Mr. Hitaway and his sister were there. Clara, he said very sternly, you'd better send someone to dismiss that man. I shall not speak to him again. Lord Forne did not speak to Andy Garen again, but Mrs. Hitaway did. After a faint and futile endeavour made by her to ascertain what had taken place in the parlour downstairs, she descended and found Andy seated in his chair, still holding his hat in his hand as stiff as a wax figure. He had been afraid of the Lord, but as soon as the Lord had left him, he was very angry with the Lord. He had been brought up all that way to tell his story to the Lord, and the Lord had gone away without hearing a word of it, had gone away, and had absolutely insulted him, had asked him who paid him his wages, and had then told him that Lady Eustace was his mistress. Andy Garen felt strongly that this was not that kind of confidential usage which he had had a right to expect, and after his experience of the last hour and a half, he did not at all relish his renewed solitude in that room. A drape of pure sin liquor purred out to you in a weeny glass near deeper than an egg-chill, and two are cookies. That's what she called a refreshment. It was thus that Andy afterwards spoke to his wife of the hospitalities offered to him in Warwick Square, regarding which his anger was especially hot, in that he had been treated like a child or a common labourer, instead of having the decanter left with him to be used at his own discretion. When, therefore, Mrs. Hittaway returned to him, the awe with which new circumstances and the Lord had filled him, was fast vanishing, and giving place to that stubborn indignation against people in general, which was his normal condition. I suppose I'm just a gangbark again to portray Mrs. Hittaway, and that will be all you'll want of me. This, he said the moment the Lady entered the room. But Mrs. Hittaway did not want to lose his services quite so soon. She expressed regret that her brother should have found himself unable to discuss a subject that was naturally so very distasteful to him, and begged Mr. Garon to come to her again the next morning. What I saw with my entwys, Mrs. Hittaway, I saw. And, nevertheless, because his leadership many find it just tasteful, as your leadership was saying, there was them to a colleagueing and a sitting, irkiness their slaps, all over. And a kissing, yes, my lady, a kissing, as females, not to say males, all need to kiss, unless they may mourn on wife, and then not among the roaks, my lady. And if his leadership does not care to hear tell of it, and finds it need tasteful, as your leadership was saying, he should never have sent for Andy Gauron all the way from Portray just to tell him what I want to hear now I'm come to tell it to him. All this was said with so much unction that even Mrs. Hittaway herself found it to be not tasteful. She shrunk and shivered under Mr. Gauron's eloquence, and almost repented of her zeal. But women perhaps feel less repugnance than do men at using ignoble assistance in the achievement of good purposes. Though Mrs. Hittaway shrunk and shivered under the strong action with which Mr. Gauron garnished his strong words, still she was sure of the excellence of her purpose, and believing that useful aid might still be obtained from Andy Gauron, and perhaps prudently anxious to get value in return for the cost of the journey up from Ayrshire, she made the man promise to return to her on the following morning.