 46 The Quarrel On that Wednesday evening Phineas Finn was at the universe. He dined at the house of Madame Gersler, and went from thence to the club in better spirits than he had known for some weeks past. The Duke and Duchess had been at Madame Gersler's, and Lord and Lady Chiltern who were now up in town, with Barrington Earl and, as it happened, old Mr. Mall. The dinner had been very pleasant, and two or three words had been spoken which had tended to raise the heart of our hero. In the first place Barrington Earl had expressed regret that Phineas was not at his old post at the colonies, and the young Duke had re-echoed it. Phineas thought that the manner of his old friend Earl was more cordial to him than it had been lately, and even that comforted him. Then it was a delight to him to meet the children's, who were always gracious to him. But perhaps his greatest pleasure came from the reception which was accorded by his hostess to Mr. Mall, which was of a nature not easy to describe. It had become evident to Phineas that Mr. Mall was constant in his attentions to Madame Gersler, and though he had no purpose of his own in reference to the Lady, though he was aware that former circumstances, circumstances of that previous life to which he was accustomed to look back as to another existence, made it impossible that he should have any such purpose. Still he viewed Mr. Mall with dislike. He had once mentioned to ask her whether she really liked that old padded dandy. She had answered that she did like the old dandy. Old dandy, she thought, were preferable to old men who did not care how they looked. And as for the padding, that was his affair, not hers. She did not know why a man should not have a pad in his coat, as well as a woman one at the back of her head. But Phineas had known that this was her gentle rail-ry, and now he was delighted to find that she continued it, after a still more gentle fashion, before the man's face. Mr. Mall's manner was certainly peculiar. He was more than ordinarily polite, and was afterwards declared by the duchess to have made love like an old gander. But Madame Gersler, who knew exactly how to receive such attentions, turned a glance now and then upon Phineas Phine, which he could now read with absolute precision. You see how I can dispose of a padded old dandy directly, he goes an inch too far. No words could have said that to him more plainly than did these one or two glances, and, as he had learned to dislike Mr. Mall, he was gratified. Of course they all talked about Lady Eustace and Mr. Amelius. Do you remember how intensely interested the dear old duke used to be when we none of us knew what had become of the diamonds, said the duchess? And how you took her part, said Madame Gersler. So did you, just as much as I, and why not? She was a most interesting young woman, and I sincerely hope we have not got to the end of her yet. The worst of it is that she has got into such very bad hands. The Montines have taken her up altogether. Do you know her, Mr. Phine? No duchess, and am hardly likely to make her acquaintance while she remains where she is now. The duchess laughed and nodded at her head. All the world knew by this time that she had declared herself to be the sworn enemy of the Montines. And there had been some conversation on that terribly difficult question respecting the foxes in troubleted wood. The fact is, Lord Children, said the duke, I am as ignorant as a child. I would do right if I knew how. But what I could do? Shall I import some foxes? I don't suppose, duke, that in all England there is a spot in which foxes are more prone to breed. Indeed, I am very glad of that. But something goes wrong afterwards, I fear. The nurseries are not well managed, perhaps, said the duchess. Gypsy kidnappers are allowed about the place, said Madame Gursler. Gypsies, explained the duke. Poachers, said Lord Children. But it isn't that we mind. We could deal with that ourselves if the woods were properly managed. A head of game and foxes can be reared together very well if— I don't care a straw for a head of game, Lord Children. As far as my own tastes go, I would wish that there was neither a pheasant nor a partridge, nor a hare on any property that I own. I think that sheep and barn door fowls do better for everybody in the long run, and that men who cannot live without shooting should go beyond thickly populated regions to find it. And indeed, for myself, I must say the same about foxes. They do not interest me, and I fancy that they will be gradually exterminated. God forbid, exclaimed Lord Children. But I do not find myself called upon to exterminate them myself, continued the duke. The number of men who amuse themselves by riding after one fox is too great for me to wish to interfere with them, and I know that my neighbors in the country conceive it to be my duty to have foxes for them. I will oblige them, Lord Children, as far as I can without detriment to other duties. You leave it to me, said the duchess to her neighbor, Lord Children. I'll speak to Mr. Father Gil myself, and have it put right. It, unfortunately, happened, however, that Lord Children got a letter the very next morning from Old Doggett, telling him that a litter of young cubs had been destroyed that week in Trompeton Wood. Barrington Earl and Phineas went off to the universe together, and as they went the old terms of itibacy seemed to be re-established between them. Nobody can be so sorry as I am, said Barrington, and the matter at which things have gone. When I wrote to you, of course, I thought it certain that if we came in you would come with us. Do not let that fret you. But it does fret me very much. There are so many slips that, of course, no one can answer for anything. Of course not. I know who has been my friend. The joke of it is that he himself is at present so utterly friendless. The duke will hardly speak to him. I know that as a fact. And Gresham has begun to find something is wrong. We all hoped that he would refuse to come in without a seat in the cabinet. But that was too good to be true. They say he talks of resigning. I shall believe it when I see it. He'd better not play any tricks, for if he did resign it would be accepted at once. Phineas, when he heard this, could not help thinking how glorious it would be if Mr. Bonteen were to resign, and if the place so vacated or some vacancy so occasioned were to be filled by him. They reached the club together, and as they went up the stairs they heard the hum of many voices in the room. All the world and his wife are here to-night, said Phineas. They overtook a couple of men at the door, so that there was something of the bustle of a crowd as they entered. There was the difficulty in finding places in which to put their coats and hats, for the accommodation of the universe is not great. There was a knot of men talking not far from them, and among the voices Phineas could clearly hear that of Mr. Bonteen. Rattlers he had heard before, and also Fitzgibbons, though he had not distinguished any words from them. But those spoken by Mr. Bonteen he did distinguish very plainly. Mr. Phineas Finn, or some such fellow as that, would be after her at once, said Mr. Bonteen. Then Phineas walked immediately among the knot of men and showed himself. As soon as he heard his name mentioned he doubted for a moment what he would do. Mr. Bonteen, when speaking, had not known of his presence, and it might be his duty not to seem to have listened. But the speech had been made aloud, in the open room, so that those who chose might listen, and Phineas could not but have heard it. In that moment he resolved that he was bound to take notice of what he had heard. What is it, Mr. Bonteen, that Phineas Finn will do? He asked. Mr. Bonteen had been dining. He was not a man by any means habitually intemperate, and now anyone saying that he was tipsy would have maligned him. But he was flushed with much wine, and he was a man whose arrogance in that condition was apt to become extreme. In Vino Veritas the sober devil can hide his cloven hoof, but when the devil drinks he loses his cunning and grows honest. Mr. Bonteen looked Phineas full in the face a second or two before he answered, and then said, quite aloud, You have crept upon us unawares, sir. What do you mean by that, sir? said Phineas. I have come in as any other man comes. Listeners at any rate never hear any good of themselves. Then they were present among those assembled clear indications of disapproval of Bonteen's conduct. In these days, when no palpable and obedient punishment is at hand for personal insolence from man to man, personal insolence to one man in a company seems almost to constitute an insult to every one present. When men could fight readily, an arrogant word or two between two known to be hostile to each other was only an invitation to a duel, and the angry man was doing that for which it was known that he could be made to pay. There was, or it was often thought that there was, a real spirit in the angry man's conduct, and they who were his friends before became perhaps more his friends when he had thus shown that he had an enemy. But a different feeling prevails at present, a feeling so different that we may almost say that a man in general society cannot speak even roughly to any but his intimate comrades without giving offence to all around him. Men have learned to hate the nuisance of a row, and to feel that their comfort is endangered if a man prone to rouse gets among them. Of all candidates at a club, a known quarrel is more sure of black balls now than even in the times when such a one provoked duels. Of all wars he is the worst, and there is always an unexpressed feeling that such a one exacts more from his company than his share of attention. This is so strong that too often the man quarreled with, though he be as innocent as was Phineas on the present occasion, is made subject to the general aversion which is felt for men who misbehave themselves. I wish to hear no good of myself from you, said Phineas, following him to his seat. Who is it that you said I should be after? The room was full, and everyone there, even they who had come in with Phineas, knew that Lady Eustis was the woman. Everybody at present was talking about Lady Eustis. Never mind, said Barrington Earl, taking him by the arm. What's the use of a row? No use at all, but if you heard your name mentioned in such a manner you would find it impossible to pass it over. There is Mr. Monk. Ask him. Mr. Monk was sitting very quietly in a corner of the room with another gentleman of his own age by him, one devoted to literary pursuits, and a constant attendant at the universe. As he said afterwards, he had never known any unpleasantness of that sort in the club before. There were many men of note in the room. There was a foreign minister, a member of the cabinet, two ex-members of the cabinet, a great poet, and exceedingly able editor, two earls, two members of the Royal Academy, the president of a learned society, a celebrated professor, and it was expected that royalty might come in at any minute, speak a few benign words, and blow a few clouds of smoke. It was abominable that the harmony of such a meeting should be interrupted by the binous insolence of Mr. Bonteen and the useless wrath of Phineus Finn. Really, Mr. Finn, if I were you, I would let it drop, said the gentleman devoted to literary pursuits. Phineus did not much affect the literary gentleman, but in such a matter would prefer the advice of Mr. Monk to that of any man living. He again appealed to his friend. You heard what was said. I heard Mr. Bonteen remark that you were somebody like you would in certain circumstances be after a certain lady. I thought it to be an ill-judged speech, and as your particular friend I heard it with great regret. What a row about nothing, said Mr. Bonteen, rising from his seat. We were speaking of a very pretty woman, and I was saying that some young fellow, generally supposed to be fond of pretty women, would soon be after her. If that offends your morals, you must have become very strict of late. There was something in the explanation, which, though very bad and vulgar, it was almost impossible not to accept. Such at least was the feeling of those who stood around Phineus Finn. He himself knew that Mr. Bonteen had intended to assert that he would be after the woman's money and not her beauty, but he had taste enough to perceive that he could not descend to any such detail as that. There are reasons, Mr. Bonteen, he said, why I think you should abstain from mentioning my name in public. Your playful references should be made to your friends, and not to those who, to say the least of it, are not your friends. When the matter was discussed afterwards, it was thought that Phineus Finn should have abstained from making that last speech. It was certainly evidence of great anger on his part. And he was very angry. He knew that he had been insulted, and insulted by the man whom of all men he would feel most disposed to punish for any offense. He could not allow Mr. Bonteen to have the last word, especially as a certain amount of success had seemed to attend them. Fate, at the moment, was so far propitious to Phineus that outward circumstances saved him from any immediate reply, and thus left him in some degree triumphant. Expected royalty arrived, and cast its salutary oil upon the troubled waters. The Prince, with some well-known popular attendant, entered the room, and for a moment every gentleman rose from his chair. It was but for a moment, and then the Prince became as any other gentleman talking to his friends. One or two there present, who had perhaps peculiarly royal instincts, had crept up towards him so as to make him the center of a little knot. But otherwise conversation went on much as it had done before the unfortunate arrival of Phineus. That quarrel, however, had been very distinctly trodden underfoot by the Prince, for Mr. Bonteen had found himself quite incapacitated from throwing back any missile in reply to the last that had been hurled at him. Phineus took a vacant seat next to Mr. Monk, who was deficient perhaps in royal instincts, and asked him in a whisper his opinion of what had taken place. Do not think any more of it, said Mr. Monk. That is so much more easily said than done. How am I not to think of it? Of course I mean that you are to act as though you had forgotten it. Did you ever know a more gratuitous insult? Of course he was talking of that Lady Eustace. I had not been listening to him before, but no doubt he was. I need not tell you now what I think of Mr. Bonteen. He is not more gracious in my eyes than he is in yours. Tonight I fancy he has been drinking, which has not improved him. You may be sure of this, Phineus, that the less a resentful anger you show in such a wretched affair has took place just now, the more will be the blame attached to him and the less to you. Why should any blame be attached to me? I don't say that any will, unless you allow yourself to become loud and resentful, the thing is not worth your anger. I am angry. Then go to bed at once and sleep it off. Come with me. We'll walk home together. It isn't the proper thing, I fancy, to leave the room while the Prince is here. Then I must do the improper thing, said Mr. Monk. I haven't a key, and I mustn't keep my servant up any longer. A quiet man like me can creep out without notice. Good night, Phineus, and take my advice about this. If you can't forget it, act and speak and look as though you had forgotten it. Then Mr. Monk, without much creeping, left the room. The club was very full, and there was a clatter of voices, and the clatter round the Prince was the noisiest and merriest. Mr. Bonteen was there, of course, and Phineus, as he sat alone, could hear him as he edged his words in upon the royal ears. Every now and again there was a royal joke, and then Mr. Bonteen's laughter was conspicuous. As far as Phineus could distinguish the sounds, no special amount of the royal attention was devoted to Mr. Bonteen. That very able editor, and one of the academicians, and the poet, seemed to be the most honoured, and when the Prince went, which he did when his cigar was finished, Phineus observed with inward satisfaction that the royal hand, which was given to the poet, to the editor, and to the painter, was not extended to the President of the Board of Trade. And then, having taken delight in this, he accused himself of meanness in having even observed a matter so trivial. Soon after this a ruck of men left the club, and then Phineus rose to go. As he went down the stairs, Barrington Earl followed him, with Lawrence Fitzgibbon, and the three stood for a moment at the door in the street, talking to each other. Phine's way lay eastward from the club, whereas both Earl and Fitzgibbon would go westward towards their homes. How well the Prince behaves at these sort places, said Earl. Prince's ought to behave well, said Phineus. Somebody else didn't behave very well. Afe in my boy, said Lawrence. Somebody else, as you call him, replied Phineus, is very unlike a Prince, and never does behave well. Tonight, however, he surpassed himself. Don't bother your mind about an old fellow, said Barrington. I tell you what it is, Earl, said Phineus. I don't think that I'm a vindictive man by nature, but with that man I mean to make it even some of these days. You know as well as I do what it is he has done to me, and you know also whether I have deserved it. Wretched reptile that he is. He has pretty nearly been able to ruin me, and all from some petty feelings of jealousy. Phine, me boy, don't talk like that, said Lawrence. You shouldn't show your hands, said Barrington. I know what you mean, and it's all very well. After your different fashions you too have been true to me, and I don't care how much you see of my hand. That man's insolence angers me to such an extent that I cannot refrain from speaking out. He hasn't spirit enough to go out with me, or I would shoot him. Blankenberg, eh? said Lawrence, alluding to the now notorious duel which had once been fought in that place between Phineus and Lord Chiltern. I would, continued the angry man. There are times in which one is driven to regret that there has come an end to dueling, and there is left to one no immediate means of resenting an injury. As they were speaking Mr. Bonteen came out from the front door alone, and seeing the three men standing, passed on to the left, eastwards. Good night, Earl, he said. Good night, Fitzgibbon. The two men answered him, and Phineus stood back in the gloom. It was about one o'clock, and the night was very dark. By George I do dislike that man, said Phineus. Then, with a laugh, he took a life preserver out of his pocket, and made an action with it as though he was striking some enemy over the head. In those days there had been much garotting in the streets, and writers in the press had advised those who walked about at night to go armed with sticks. Phineus Finn had himself been once engaged with garotters, as has been told in the former Chronicle, and had since armed himself, thinking more probably of the thing which he had happened to see than men do who have only heard of it. As soon as he had spoken he followed Mr. Bonteen down the street at the distance of perhaps a couple of hundred yards. They won't have a row, will they? said Earl. Oh, dear no! Phine won't think of speaking to him, and you may be sure that Bonteen won't say a word to Phine. Between you and me, Barrington, I wish Master Phineus would give him a thorough good hiding. On the next morning at seven o'clock a superintendent of police called at the house of Mr. Gresham and informed the prime minister that Mr. Bonteen, the president of the Board of Trade, had been murdered during the night. There was no doubt of the fact. The body had been recognized, and information had been taken to the unfortunate widow at the house Mr. Bonteen had occupied in St. James's place. The superintendent had already found out that Mr. Bonteen had been attacked as he was returning from his club late at night, or rather early in the morning, and expressed no doubt that he had been murdered close to the spot on which his body was found. There is a dark, uncanny-looking passage, running from the end of Bolton Row in Mayfair, between the gardens of two great noblemen, coming out among the mews in Barkley Street at the corner of Barkley Square, just opposite to the bottom of Hay Hill. It was on the steps leading up from the passage to the level of the ground above that the body was found. The passage was almost as near away as any from the club to Mr. Bonteen's house in St. James's place. But the superintendent declared that the gentleman but seldom used the passage after dark, and he was disposed to think that the unfortunate man must have been forced down the steps by the ruffian who had attacked him from the level above. The murderer, so thought the superintendent, must have been cognizant of the way usually taken by Mr. Bonteen, and must have lain in wait for him in the darkness of the mouth of the passage. The superintendent had been at work on his inquiries since four in the morning, and had heard from Lady Eustace, and from Mrs. Bonteen, as far as that poor distracted woman had been able to tell her story, some account of the cause of quarrel between the respective husbands of those two ladies. The officer, who had not as yet heard a word of the late disturbance between Mr. Bonteen and Phineas Finn, was strongly of the opinion that the reverend Mr. Amelius had been the murderer. Mr. Gresham, of course, coincided in that opinion. What steps had been taken as to the arrest of Mr. Amelius? The superintendent was of the opinion that Mr. Amelius was already in custody. He was known to be lodging close to the Marilaband Workhouse in Northumberland Street, having removed that somewhat obscure neighborhood, as soon as his house in Lown Square had been broken up by the running away of his wife and his consequent want of means. Such was the story, as told to the Prime Minister, at seven o'clock in the morning. At eleven o'clock, at his private room at the Treasury Chambers, Mr. Gresham heard much more. At that time they were present with him, two officers of the police force, his colleagues in the Cabinet, Lord Cantrip and the Duke of Omnium, three of his junior colleagues in the Government, Lord Fawn, Barrington Earl, and Lawrence Fitzgibbon, and Major McIntosh, the Chief of the London Police. It was not exactly part of the duty of Mr. Gresham to investigate the circumstances of this murder, but there was so much in it that brought it closely home to him and his Government, that it became impossible for him not to concern himself in the business. There had been so much talk about Mr. Bonteen lately. His name had been so common in the newspapers, the ill usage which he had been supposed, by some, to have suffered, had been so freely discussed, and his quarrel, not only with Finneas Finn, but subsequently with the Duke of Omnium, had been so widely known, that his sudden death created more momentary excitement than might probably have followed that of a greater man. And now, too, the facts of the past night, as they became known, seemed to make the crime more wonderful, more exciting, more momentous, than it would have been, had it been brought clearly home to such a wretch as the Bohemian Jew, Joseph Melius, who had contrived to cheat that wretched Lizzie Eustis into marrying him. As regarded Joseph Melius, the story now told respecting him was this. He was already in custody. He had been found in bed at his lodgings, between seven to eight, and had, of course, given himself up without difficulty. He had seemed to be horror-struck when he heard of the man's death, but had openly expressed his joy. He has endeavored to ruin me, and has done me a world of harm. Why should I sorrow for him?" he said to the policeman, when rebuked for his inhumanity. But nothing had been found, tending to implicate him in the crime. The servant declared that he had gone to bed before eleven o'clock to her knowledge, for she had seen him there, and that he had not left the house afterwards. Was he in possession of a latch-key? It appeared that he did usually carry a latch-key, but that it was often borrowed from him by members of the family when it was known that he would not want it himself, and that it had been so lent on this night. It was considered certain by those in the house that he had not gone out after he went to bed. Nobody, in fact, had left the house after ten, but in accordance with his usual custom, Mr. Melius had sent down the key as soon as he had found that he would not want it, and it had been all night in the custody of the mistress of the establishment. Nevertheless, his clothes were examined minutely, but without affording any evidence against him, that Mr. Bontein had been killed with some blunt weapon, such as a life-preserver, was assumed by the police, but no such weapon was in the possession of Mr. Melius, nor had any such weapon yet been found. He was, however, in custody, with no evidence against him except that which was afforded by his known and acknowledged enmity to Mr. Bontein. So far Major McIntosh and the two officers had told their story. Then came the united story of the other gentlemen assembled, from hearing which, however, the two police officers were debarred. The Duke and Barrington Earl had both dined in company with Finneas Finn, at Madame Gersler's, and the Duke was undoubtedly aware that ill blood had existed between Finn and Mr. Bontein. Both Earl and Fitzgibbon described the quarrel at the club, and described also the anger which Finn had expressed against the wretched man as he stood talking at the club door. His gesture of vengeance was remembered and repeated, though both the men who heard it expressed their strongest conviction that the murder had not been committed by him. As Earl remarked, the very expression of such a threat was almost proof that he had not at that moment any intention on his mind of doing such a deed as had been done. But they told also of the life-preserver which Finn had shown them, as he took it from the pocket of his outside coat, and they marveled at the coincidences of the night. When Lord Fawn gave further evidence, which seemed to tell very hardly upon Finneas Finn, he also had been at the club and had left it just before Finn and the two other men had clustered at the door. He had walked very slowly, having turned down to Curson Street and Bolton Row from whence he made his way into Piccadilly by Clarge's Street. He had seen nothing of Mr. Bontein, but as he crossed over to Clarge's Street he was passed at a very rapid pace by a man muffled in a top coat who made his way straight along Bolton Row toward the passage which has been described. At the moment he had not connected the person of the man who passed him with any acquaintance of his own, but now he felt sure, after what he had heard, that the man was Mr. Finne. As he passed out of the club Finne was putting on his overcoat and Lord Fawn had observed the peculiarity of the grey colour. It was exactly a similar coat, only with its colour raised, that had passed him in the street. The man, too, was of Mr. Finne's height and build. He had known Mr. Finne well and the man stepped with Mr. Finne's step. Major Macintosh thought that Lord Fawn's evidence was very unfortunate as regarded Mr. Finne. I'm d—if that idiot won't hang poor Finne, said Fitzgibbon afterwards to Earl, and yet I don't believe a word of it. Fawn wouldn't lie, for the sake of hanging Finne as Finne, said Earl. No, I don't suppose he's given to lying at all. He believes it all, but he's such a muddle-headed fellow that he can get himself to believe anything. He's one of those men who always unconsciously exaggerate what they have to say, for the sake of the importance it gives them. It might be possible that a jury would look at Lord Fawn's evidence in this light, otherwise it would bear very heavily indeed against Finne as Finne. Then a question arose as to the road which Mr. Bonteen usually took from the club. All the members who were there present had walked home with him at various times, and by various routes, but never by the way through the passage. It was supposed that on this occasion he must have gone by Barclay Square, because he had certainly not turned down by the first street to the right, which he would have taken had he intended to avoid the Square. He had been seen by Barrington, Earl, and Fitzgibbon to pass that turning. Otherwise they would have made no remark as to the possibility of a renewed quarrel between him and Finneas, should Finneas chance to overtake him, for Finneas would certainly go by the Square unless taken out of his way by some special purpose. The most direct way of all for Mr. Bonteen would have been that followed by Lord Fawn, but as he had not turned down this street and had not been seen by Lord Fawn, who was known to walk very slowly, and had often been seen to go by Barclay Square, it was presumed that he had now taken that road. In this case he would certainly pass the end of the passage towards which Lord Fawn declared that he had seen the man hurrying whom he now supposed to have been, Finneas Finne. Finneas direct road home would, as has already been said, have been through the Square, cutting off the corner of the Square, towards Bruton Street, and thence across Bond Street by Conduit Street to Regent Street, and so to Great Marlborough Street where he lived. But it had been no doubt possible for him to have been on the spot on which Lord Fawn had seen the man, for, although in his natural course thither from the club he would have at once gone down the street to the right, a course which both Earl and Fitzgibbon were able to say that he did not take as they had seen him go beyond the turning. Nevertheless there had been ample time for him to have retraced his steps to it in time to have caught Lord Fawn and thus to have deceived Fitzgibbon and Earl as to the route he had taken. Where they had got thus far Lord Cantrip was standing close to the window of the room at Mr. Gresham's elbow. Don't allow yourself to be hurried into believing it, said Lord Cantrip. I do not know that we need believe it or the reverse. It is a case for the police. Of course it is, but your belief in mine will have a weight. Nothing that I have ever heard makes me for a moment think it possible. I know the man. He was very angry. Had he struck him in the club I should not have been much surprised, but he never attacked his enemy with a bludgeon in the dark alley. I know him well. But you think of Fawn's story. He was mistaken in his man. Remember, it was a dark night. I do not see that you and I can do anything, said Mr. Gresham. I shall have to say something in the house as to the poor fellow's death, but I certainly shall not express a suspicion. Why should I? Up to this moment nothing had been done as to Phineas Finn. It was known that he would, in his natural course of business, be in his place in Parliament at four, and Major Macintosh was of the opinion that he certainly should be taken before a magistrate in time to prevent the necessity of arresting him in the house. It was decided that Lord Fawn, with Fitzgibbon and Earl, should accompany the police officer to Bow Street, and that a magistrate should be applied to for a warrant if he thought the evidence was sufficient. Major Macintosh was of the opinion that, although by no possibility could the two men suspected have been jointly guilty of the murder, still the circumstances were such as to justify the immediate arrest of both. Were Joseph Melius really guilty, and to be allowed to slip from their hands, no doubt it might be very difficult to catch him. Facts did not at present seem to prevail against him, but as the Major observed, facts are apt to alter considerably when they are minutely sifted. His character was half sufficient to condemn him, and then with him there was an adequate motive and what Lord Cantrup regarded as a possibility. It was not to be conceived that from mere rage Phineas Finn would lay a plot for murdering a man in the street. It is on the cards, my Lord, said the Major, that he may have chosen to attack Mr. Bontein without intending to murder him. The murder may afterwards have been an accident. It was impossible after this for even a Prime Minister and two Cabinet Ministers to go about their work calmly. The men concerned had been too well known to them to allow their minds to become clear of the subject. When Major Macintosh went off to Bow Street with Earl and Lawrence, it was certainly the opinion of the majority of those who had been present that the blow had been struck by the hand of Phineas Finn, and perhaps the worst aspect of it all was that there had been not simply a blow, but blows. The constables had declared that the murdered man had been struck thrice about the head, and that the fatal stroke had been given on the side of his head after the man's hat had been knocked off. That Finn should have followed his enemy through the street, after such words as he had spoken, with the view of having the quarrel out in some shape did not seem to be very improbable to any of them except Lord Cantrip, and then had there been a scuffle out in the open path at the spot at which the angry man might have overtaken his adversary, it was not incredible to them that he should have drawn even such a weapon as a life-preserver from his pocket. But, in the case as it had occurred, a spot peculiarly traitorous had been selected, and the attack had too probably been made from behind. As yet there was no evidence that the murderer had himself encountered any ill usage, and Finn, if he was the murderer, must, from the time he was standing at the club door, have contemplated the traitorous dastardly attack. He must have counted his moments, have returned slyly in the dark to the corner of the street which he had once passed, have muffled his face in his coat, and have then laid in wait in the spot to which an honest man at night would hardly trust himself with honest purposes. I look upon it as quite out of the question, said Lord Cantrip, when the three ministers were left alone. Now, Lord Cantrip had served for many months in the same office as Finneas Finn. You were simply putting your own opinion of the man against the facts, said Mr. Gresham, but facts always convince, and another man's opinion rarely convinces. I'm not sure that we know the facts yet, said the Duke. Of course we are speaking of them as far as they have been told to us. As far as they go, unless they can be upset and shown not to be facts, I fear they would be conclusive to me on a jury. Do you mean that you have heard enough to condemn him, asked Lord Cantrip? Remember what we have heard? The murdered man had two enemies. He may have had a third, or ten, but we have heard of but two. He may have been attacked for his money, said the Duke. But neither his money nor his watch were touched, continued Mr. Gresham. Anger with the desire of putting the man out of the way has caused the murder. Of the two enemies, one, according to the facts, as we now have them, could not have been there. Nor is it probable that he could have known that his enemy would be on that spot. The other not only could have been there, but was certainly near the place at the moment, so near that did he not do the deed himself, it is almost wonderful that it should not have been interrupted in its doing by his nearness. He certainly knew that the victim would be there. He was burning with anger against him at the moment. He had just threatened him. He had with him such an instrument as was afterwards used. A man believed to be him is seen hurrying to the spot by a witness whose credibility is beyond doubt. These are the facts such as we have them at present. Unless they can be upset, I fear they would convince the jury, as they have already convinced those officers of the police. Officers of the police always believe men to be guilty, said Lord Cantrip. They don't believe the Jew clergyman to be guilty, said Mr. Gresham. I fear that there will be enough to send Mr. Finn to trial, said the Duke. Not a doubt of it, said Mr. Gresham. And yet I feel as convinced of his innocence as I do of my own, said Lord Cantrip. End of Chapter 47 Chapter 48 of Phineas Redux 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 Naomi. Phineas Redux by Anthony Trollup Chapter 48 Mr. Mall's Attempt About three o'clock in the day, the first tidings of what had taken place reached Madame Gersler in the following perturbed note from her friend the Duchess. Have you heard what took place last night? Mr. Bonteen was murdered as he came home from his club, and they say that it was done by Phineas Finn. Plantagenet has just come in from Downing Street, where everybody is talking about it. I can't get from him what he believes. One never can get anything from him, but I never will believe it, nor will you, I'm sure. I wrote we stick to him till the last. He is to be put in prison and tried. I can hardly believe that Mr. Bonteen has been murdered, though I don't know why he shouldn't as well as anybody else. Plantagenet talks about the great loss. I know which would be the greatest loss, and so do you. I'm going out now to try and find out something. Barrington Earl's there, and if I can find him he will tell me. I shall be home by half past five. Do come. There's a dear woman. There's no one else I can talk to about it. If I'm not back, go in all this saying, and tell them to bring you tea. Only think of Lady Laura, with one mad in the other in Newgate—G.P. This letter gave Madame Gersler such a blow, that for a few minutes it altogether knocked her down. After reading it once, she hardly knew what it contained beyond a statement that Finneas Finn was in Newgate. She sat for a while with it in her hands, almost swooning, and then with an effort she recovered herself and read the letter again. Mr. Barnteen murdered, and Finneas Finn, who had dined with her only yesterday evening, with whom she had been talking of all the sins of the murdered man, who was her special friend, of whom she thought more than of any other human being, of whom she could not bring herself to cease to think, accused of the murder. Believe it, the Duchess had declared with that sort of enthusiasm, which was common to her, that she never would believe it. No, indeed. What judge of character would anyone be who could believe that Finneas Finn could be guilty of a midnight murder? I wrote we stick to him. Stick to him? Madame Gersler said, repeating the words to herself. What is the use of sticking to a man who does not want you? How can a woman cling to a man who, having said that he did not want her, had comes again within her influence, but does not unsay what he had said before? Nevertheless, if it should be that the man was in real distress, in absolutely dire sorrow, she would cling to him with a consistency which, as she thought, if Finneas the Duchess would hardly understand, that they should hang him, she would bathe his body with the tears, and live as a woman should live, who had loved a murderer to the last. But she swore to herself that she would not believe it. Nay, she did not believe it. Believe it, indeed. It was simply impossible that he might have killed the wretch, and some struggle brought on by the man's own fault was possible. Had the man attacked Finneas Finn, it was only too probable that there might have been such a result. But murder, secret midnight murder, could not have been committed by the man she had chosen as her friend. And yet, through it all, there was a resolve that even though he should have committed murder, she would be true to him. If it should come to the very worst, then would she declare the intensity of the affection with which she regarded the murderer. As to Mr. Bontein, what the Duchess said was true enough. Why should not he be killed as well as another? In a present state of mind, she felt very little pity for Mr. Bontein. After a fashion, a verdict of served him right crossed her mind, as it had doubtless crossed that of the Duchess when she was writing her letter. The man had made himself so obnoxious that it was well that he should be out of the way. But not on that account would she believe that Finneas Finn had murdered him. Could it be true that the man after all was dead? Marvelous reports, and reports marvelously false, do spread themselves about the world every day. But this report had come from the Duke, and he was not a man given to absurd rumors. He had heard the story in Downing Street, and if so, it must be true. Of course she would go down to the Duchess at the hour fixed. It was now a little after three, and she ordered the carriage to be ready for her at a quarter past five. Then she told the servant at first to admit no one who might call, and then to come up and let her know if anyone should come without sending the visitor away. It might be that someone would come to her expressly from Finneas, or at least with tidings about this affair. Then she read the letter again, and those few last words in it stuck to her thoughts like a bear. Think of Lady Laura, with one mad in the other in Newgate. Was this man the only man whom she had ever loved, more to Lady Laura Kennedy than to her? Or rather, was Lady Laura more to him than was she herself? If so, why should she fret herself for his sake? She was ready enough to own that she could sacrifice everything for him, even though he should be standing as a murderer in the dark if such sacrifice would be valued by him. He had himself told her that his feelings towards Lady Laura were simply those of an affectionate friend, but how could she believe that statement when all the world were saying the reverse? Lady Laura was married woman, a woman whose husband was still living, and of course he was bound to make such an assertion when he and she were named together. And then it was certain, Madame Gerser believed it to be certain, that there had been a time in which Phineas had asked for the love of Lady Laura's standards. But he had never asked for her love, it had been tainted to him, and he had rejected it. And now the Duchess, who with all her inaccuracies had that sharpness of vision which enables some men and women to see into facts, spoke as though Lady Laura were to be pitied more than all others because of the evil that had befallen Phineas Finn. Had not Lady Laura chosen her own husband, and was not the man, let him be ever so mad still her husband? Madame Gerser was sore of heart, as well as broken down with sorrow, till at last hiding her face on the pillow of the sofa, still holding the Duchess's letter in her hand, she burst into a fit of hysteric sobs. Few of those you knew Madame Max Gerser-Lowell, as she lived in town and in country, would have believed that such could have been the effect upon her of the news which she had heard. Credit was given to her everywhere for good nature, discretion, affability, and a certain grace of numina which always made her charming. She was known to be generous, wise, and of high spirit. Something of her conduct to the old Duke had crept into general notice, and had been told here and there to her honour. She had conquered the good opinion of many, and was a popular woman. But there was not one among her friends who supposed to capable of becoming a victim to a strong passion, a word have suspected her of a reckless weeping for any sorrow. The Duchess, who thought that she knew Madame Gerser-Lowell, would not have believed it to be true, even if she had seen it. You like people, but I don't think you ever love anyone the Duchess had once said to her. Madame Gerser-Lowell had smiled, and had seemed to assent. To enjoy the world, and to know that the best enjoyment must come from witnessing the satisfaction of others, had apparently been her philosophy. But now she was prostrate because this man was in trouble, and because she had been told that his trouble was more than another woman could bear. She was still sobbing and crushing the letter in her hand when the servant came up to tell her that Mr. Morel had called. He was below waiting to know whether she would see him. She remembered at once that Mr. Morel had met Phineas at a table on the previous evening, and, thinking that he must have come with tidings respecting this great event, desired that he might be shown up to her. But as it happened, Mr. Morel had not yet heard of the death of Mr. Bontein. He had remained at home till nearly four, having a great object in view which made him deem it expedient, that he should go direct from his own rooms to Madame Gerser-Lowell's house, and had not even looked in at his club. The reader will perhaps divine the great object. On this day he proposed to ask Madame Gerser-Lowell to make him the happiest of men, as he certainly would have thought himself for a time had she consented to put him in possession of her large income. He had therefore padded himself with more than ordinary care, reduced but not obliterated the grayness of his locks, looked carefully to the fitting of his trousers, and spared himself those ordinary labours of the morning which might have robbed him of any remaining spark of his juvenility. Madame Gerser-Lowell met him more than half across the room as he entered it. What have you heard? said she. Mr. Morel wore his sweetest smile, but he had heard nothing. He could only press her hand and look blank, understanding that there was something which he ought to have heard. She thought nothing of the presser of her hand, apt as she was to be conscious, at any instant, of all that was going on around her. She thought of nothing now but that man's peril, and of the truth or falsehood of the story that had been sent to her. You have heard nothing of Mr. Finn? Not a word, said Mr. Morel, withdrawing his hand. What has happened to Mr. Finn? Had Mr. Finn broken his neck, it would have been nothing to Mr. Morel, but the lady's solicitude was something to him. Mr. Bantine has been murdered. Mr. Bantine—so I hear—I thought you'd come to tell me of it. Mr. Bantine murdered? No, I have heard nothing. I do not know the gentleman. I thought you said Mr. Finn. It is not known about London, then? I cannot say, Madame Gerser-Lowell, I have just come from home, and have not been out all the morning. Who has murdered him? Ah, I do not know. That is what I wanted you to tell me. But what of Mr. Finn? I also have not been out to Mr. Morel and can give you no information. I thought you had called because you knew that Mr. Finn had died here. Has Mr. Finn been murdered? Mr. Bantine—I said that the report was that Mr. Bantine had been murdered. Madame Gerser-Lowell was now waxing angry, most unreasonably, but I know nothing about it, and I'm just going out to make inquiry, the carriage is audit. Then she stood, expecting him to go, and he knew that he was expected to go. It was at any rate clear to him that he could not carry out his great design on the present occasion. This has so upset me that I can think of nothing else at present, and you must, if you please, excuse me. I would not have let you take the trouble of coming up, had not I thought that you were the bearer of some news. Then she bowed, and Mr. Morel bowed, and as he left the room, she forgot to ring the bell. What the deuce could she have meant about that fellow Finn, he said to himself? They cannot both have been murdered. He went to his club, and there he soon learned the truth. The information was given to him with clear and undoubting words. Phineas Finn and Mr. Bantine had quarrelled at the universe. Mr. Bantine, as far as words went, had got the best of his adversary. This had taken place in the presence of the Prince, who had expressed himself as greatly annoyed by Mr. Finn's conduct, and afterwards Phineas Finn had waylaid Mr. Bantine in the passage between Bolton Rowell and Berkeley Street, and had there murdered him. As it happened, no one who had been at the universe was at that moment present, but the whole affair was quite well known and spoken of without a doubt. I hope he will be hung with all my heart, said Mr. Morel, who thought that he could read the riddle which had been so unintelligible in Park Lane. When Madame Gessler reached Carlton Terrace, which she did before the time named by the Duchess, her friend had not yet returned, but she went upstairs as she had been desired, and they brought her tea. But the tea part remained untouched till half past six o'clock, and then the Duchess returned. Oh, my dear, I am so sorry for being late. Why haven't you had tea? What is the truth of it all? asked Madame Gessler, standing up with her fists clenched as they hung by her side. I don't seem to know nearly as much as I did when I wrote to you. Has the man been murdered? Oh, dear, yes, there's no doubt about that. I was quite sure of that when I sent the letter. I have had such a hunt, but at last I went up to the door of the House of Commons and got Barrington Earl to come out to me. Well, two men have been arrested, not finished, Finn. Yes, Mr. Finn is one of them. Is it not awful? So much more dreadful to me than the other poor man's death. One oughten to say so, of course. And who is the other man? Of course, he did it, that horrid Jew preaching man that married Lizzie Eustace. Mr. Bontein had been persecuting him, and making out that he had another wife at home in Hungary or Bohemia somewhere. Of course he did it. That's what I say. Of course the Jew did it. But then all the evidence goes to show that he didn't do it. He was in bed at the time, and the door of the House was locked up, so that he couldn't get out. And the man who did the murder hadn't got on his coat, but had got on Finneas Finn's coat. Was there blood? Asked Madam Gossler, shaking from head to foot. Not that I know of. I don't suppose they've looked yet, but Lord Faun saw the man and swore as to the coat. Lord Faun, however always hated that man. I wouldn't believe a word he would say. Barrington doesn't think so much of the coat, but Finneas had a club at his pocket, and the man was killed by a club. There hasn't been any other club found, but Finneas Finn took his home with him. A murderer would not have done that. Barrington says that the head policeman says that it is just what a very clever murderer would do. Do you believe it, Duchess? Certainly not. Not though Lord Faun swore that he had seen it. I never will believe what I don't like to believe, and nothing shall ever make me. He couldn't have done it. Well, for the matter of that, I suppose he could. No, Duchess. He could not have done it. He is strong enough and brave enough, but not enough of a coward. There is nothing cowardly about him. If Finneas Finn could have struck an enemy with a club in a dark passage, behind his back, I will never care to speak to any man again. Nothing shall make me believe it. If I did, I could never again believe in anyone. If they told you that your husband had murdered a man, what would you say? But he isn't your husband, Madame Max. No, certainly not. I cannot fly at them, when they say so, as you would do. But I can be just as sure. If twenty Lord Faun swore that they had seen it, I would not believe them. Or what will they do with him? The Duchess behaved very well to her friend, saying not a single word to Twitter, with the love which she betrayed. She seemed to take it as a matter of course, that Madame Gersler's interest in Finneas Finn should be as it was. The Duke, she said, could not come home to dinner, and Madame Gersler should stay with her. Both houses were in such a ferment about the murder that nobody liked to be away. Everybody had been struck with amazement, not simply, not chiefly, by the fact of the murder, but by the double destruction of the two men, whose ill-will to each other had been of late so often the subject of conversation. So Madame Gersler remained a carton terrace till late in the evening, and during the whole visit there was nothing mentioned but the murder of Mr. Bontein and the peril of Finneas Finn. Someone will go and see him, I suppose, said Madame Gersler. Lord Cantrip has been already in Mr. Monk. Could not I go? Well, it would be rather strong, if we both went together, suggested Madame Gersler, and before she left Carleton Terrace she had almost extracted a promise from the Duchess that they would together proceed to the prison and endeavour to see Finneas Finn. End of Chapter 48 Chapter 49 of Finneas Redux This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nicholas Clifford Finneas Redux by Anthony Trollop Chapter 49 Showing What Mrs. Bunce Said to the Policeman We have left Adelaide Palace down at the hall. We are up here only for a couple of days to see Laura and to try to find out what had better be done about Kennedy. This was said to Finneas Finn in his own room in Great Marlborough Street by Lord Chilton on the morning after the murder between ten and eleven o'clock. Finneas had not as yet heard of the death of the man with whom he had quarrelled. Lord Chilton had now come to him with some proposition which he has yet did not understand and which Lord Chilton certainly did not know how to explain. Looked at simply, the proposition was one for providing Finneas Finn with an income out of the wealth belonging or that would belong to the standish family. Lady Laura's fortune would, it was thought, soon be at her own disposal. They who acted for her husband had assured the Earl that the yearly interest of the money should be at her ladyship's command as soon as the law would allow them so to plan it. Of Robert Kennedy's inability to act for himself, there was no longer any doubt whatsoever. And there was, they said, no desire to embarrass the estate with so small a disputed matter as the income derived from forty thousand pounds. There was great pride of purse in the manner in which the information was conveyed, but not the less on that account was it satisfactory to the Earl. Lady Laura's first thought about it referred to the imminent wants of Finneas Finn. How might it be possible for her to place a portion of her income at the command of the man she loved so that he should not feel disgraced by receiving it from her hand? She conceived some plan as to alone to be made nominally by her brother, a plan as to which it may at once be said that it could not be made to hold water for a minute, but she did succeed in inducing her brother to undertake the embassy with the view of explaining to Finneas that there would be money for him when he wanted it. If I make it over to Papa, Papa can leave it to him in his will, and if he wants it at once then can be no harm in your advancing to him what he must have at Papa's death. Her brother had frowned angrily and had shaken his head. Think how he has been thrown over by all the party, said Lady Laura. Lord Chilton had disliked the whole affair, had felt with dismay that his sister's name would become subject of reproach if he should be known that this young man was supported by her bounty. She, however, had persisted, and he had consented to see the young man feeling sure that Finneas would refuse to bear the burden of the obligation. But he had not touched the disagreeable subject when they were interrupted, and knocking of the door had been heard, and now Mrs. Bunce came upstairs bringing Mr. Low with her. Mrs. Bunce had not heard of the tragedy, but she had at once perceived from the barristers' manner that there was some serious matter forward, some matter that was probably not only serious but also calamitous, the expression of her countenance endowed as much to the two men, and the countenance of Mr. Low when he followed her into the room told the same story still more plainly. Is anything the matter? said Finneas, jumping up. Indeed, yes, said Mr. Low, who then looked at Lord Chilton and with silent. Shall I go? said Lord Chilton. Mr. Low did not know him, and of course was still silent. This is my friend, Mr. Low. This is my friend, Lord Chilton, said Finneas, aware that each was well acquainted with the other's name. I do not know of any reason why you should go. What is it, Low? Lord Chilton had come there about money, and it occurred to him that the impecunious young barrister might already be in some scrape on that head. In nineteen cases out of twenty, when a man is in a scrape, he simply wants money. Perhaps I can be of help, he said. Have you heard, my lord, what happened last night? said Mr. Low, with his eyes fixed on Finneas Finn. I have heard nothing, said Lord Chilton. What has happened? asked Finneas, looking aghast. He knew Mr. Low well enough to be sure that the thing referred to was a great and distressing moment. You too have heard nothing? Not a word that I know of. You were at the universe last night? Certainly I was. Did anything occur? The prince was there. Nothing has happened to the prince, said Chilton. His name has not been mentioned to me, said Mr. Low. Was there not a quarrel? Yes, said Finneas. I quarreled with Mr. Bonteen. What then? He behaved like a brute as he always does. Thrashing a brute hardly answers nowadays, but if ever a man deserved a thrashing he does. He has been murdered, said Mr. Low. The reader need hardly be told as regards this great offense Finneas Finn was as white as snow. The maintenance of any doubt on that matter, where it even desirable to maintain a doubt, would be altogether beyond the power of the present writer. The reader has probably perceived, from the first moment of the discovery of the body, on the steps at the end of the passage, that Mr. Bonteen had been killed by that ingenious gentleman, the reverend Mr. Emilius, who found it to be worth his while to take the step with the view of suppressing his enemy's evidence as to his former marriage. But Mr. Low, when he entered the room, had been inclined to think that his friend had done the deed. Lawrence Fitzgibbon, who had been one of the first to hear the story, and who had summoned Earl to go with him at Major Macintosh to Downing Street, had in the first place gone to the house in Carey Street, in which Bonteen was want to work, and had sent him to Mr. Low. He, Fitzgibbon, had not thought it safe that he himself should warn his countrymen, but he could not bear to think that the hair should be knocked over on its form, or that his friend should be taken by policemen without notice. So he had sent Bunts to Mr. Low, and Mr. Low had now come with his tidings. Murdered, exclaimed Phineus. Who has murdered him, said Lord Chiltern, looking first at Mr. Low, and then at Phineus. That is what the police are now endeavouring to find out. Then there was a pause, and Phineus stood up with his hand on his forehead, looking savagely from one to the other. A glimmer of an idea of the truth was beginning to cross his brain. Mr. Low was there with the object of asking him whether he had murdered the man. Mr. Fitzgibbon was with you last night, continued Mr. Low. Of course he was. It was he who sent me to you. What does it all mean, asked Lord Chiltern? I suppose they do not intend to say that our friend here murdered the man. I begin to suppose that is what they intend to say, rejoined Phineus scornfully. Mr. Low had entered the room, doubting indeed, but still inclined to believe, as Bunce had very clearly believed, that the hands of Phineus Finn were red with the blood of this man who had been killed. And had he been questioned on such a matter, when no special case was before his mind, he would have declared of himself that a few tones from the voice, or a few glances from the eye of a suspected man, would certainly not suffice to eradicate suspicion. But now he was quite sure, almost quite sure, that Phineus was as innocent as himself. To Lord Chiltern, who had heard none of the details, the suspicion was so monstrous as to fill him with wrath. You do not mean to tell us, Mr. Low, that anyone says that Finn killed the man? I have come, as his friend said, Low, to put him on his guard. The accusation will be made against him. To Phineus, not clearly looking at it, not knowing very accurately what had happened, not being in truth quite sure that Mr. Bontein was actually dead, this seemed to be a continuation of the persecution which he believed himself to have suffered from that man's hand. I can believe anything from that quarter, he said. From what quarter, asked Lord Chiltern, we had better let Mr. Low tell us what really has happened. Then Mr. Low told the story, as well as he knew it, describing the spot on which the body had been found. Often as I go to the club, said Phineus, I never was through that passage in my life. Mr. Low went on with his tale, telling how the man had been killed with some short bludgeon. I had that in my pocket, said Phine, producing the life preserver. I have almost always had something of the kind but I have been in London since that affair of Kennedys. Mr. Low cast one glance at it, to see whether it had been washed or scraped or in any way cleansed. Phineus saw the glance and was angry. There it is, as it is, you can make the most of it. I shall not touch it again till the policeman comes. Don't put your hand on it, Chiltern. Leave it there. And the instrument was left lying on the table untouched. Mr. Low went on with his story. He had heard nothing of Joseph Melius as connected with the murder, but some indistinct reference to Lord Faun and the topcoat had been made to him. There's the coat too, said Phineus, taking it from the sofa, on which he had flung it when he came home the previous night. It was a very light coat, fitted for May use, lined with silk and by no means suited for enveloping the face or person, but it had a collar which might be made to stand up. That at any rate was the coat I wore, said Phine, in answer to some observation from the barrister. The man that Lord Faun saw, said Mr. Low, was, as I understand, enveloped in a heavy, great coat. So Faun has got his finger in the pie, said Lord Chiltern. Mr. Low had been there an hour, Lord Chiltern remaining also in the room, when there came three men belonging to the police—a superintendent and with him two constables. When the men were shown up into the room, neither the bludgeon or the coat had been moved from the small table, as Phineus had himself placed them there. Both Phineus and Chiltern had lit cigars, and they were all there sitting in silence. Phineus had entertained the idea that Mr. Low believed the charge and that the barrister was therefore an enemy. Mr. Low had perceived this, but had not felt it to be his duty to declare his opinion of his friend's innocence. What he could do for his friend, he would do. But, as he thought, he could serve him better now by silent observation than by protestation. Lord Chiltern, who had been absorbed by Phineus not to leave him, continued to pour forth unabating execrations on the monstrous malignity of the accusers. I do not know that there are any accusers, said Mr. Low, except the circumstances which the police must, of course, investigate. Then the men came, and the nature of their duty was soon explained. They must request Mr. Phine to go with them to Bow Street. They took possession of many articles besides the two which had been prepared for them—the dress-coat and shirt which Phineus had worn, and the boots. He had gone out to dinner with a jibus hat, and they took that. They took his umbrella and his latch-key. They asked, even as to his purse and money, but abstained from taking the purse when Mr. Low suggested that they could have no concern with that. As it happened, Phineus was at the moment wearing the shirt in which he had dined out on the previous day, and the men asked him whether he had any objection to change it in their presence, as might be necessary after the examination that it should be detained as evidence. He did so in the presence of all the men assembled, but the humiliation of doing it almost broke his heart. Then they searched among his linen, clean and dirty, and asked questions of Mrs. Bunce in audible whispers behind the door. Whatever Mrs. Bunce could do to injure the cause of her favourite lodger by severity of manner, snubbing the policeman, and determination to give no information, she did so. Had a shirt washed? How do you suppose a gentleman's shirts are washed? You were brought up near enough to a wash tub yourself to know more than I can tell you, but the very respectable constable did not seem to be in the least annoyed by the landlady's amenities. He was taken to Bow Street, going zither in a cab with the two policemen, and the superintendent followed them with Lord Chilton and Mr. Low. You don't mean to say that you believe it, said Lord Chilton to the officer. We never believe and we never disbelieve anything, my Lord, replied the man. Nevertheless the superintendent did most firmly believe that Phineas Finn had murdered Mr. Bonteen. At the police office Phineas was met by Lord Cantrip and Barrington Earl, and soon became aware that both Lord Faun and Fitzgibbon were present. It seemed that everything else was made to give way to this inquiry, as he was once confronted by the magistrate. Everybody was personally very civil to him, and he was asked whether he would not wish to have professional advice while the charge was being made against him. But this he declined. He would tell the magistrate, he said, all he knew, but at any rate for the present he would have no need of advice. He was, at last, allowed to tell his own story after repeated cautions. There had been some words between him and Mr. Bonteen and the club, after which, standing at the door of the club with his friends, Mr. Earl and Mr. Fitzgibbon, who were now in court, he had seen Mr. Bonteen walk away towards Barclay Square. He had soon followed, but had never overtaken Mr. Bonteen. When reaching the square he had crossed over to the fountain, standing there on the south side, and from thence had taken the shortest way up Bruton Street. He had seen Mr. Bonteen for the last time dimly by the gas light at the corner of the square. As far as he could remember, he himself had at the moment passed the fountain. He had not heard the sound of any struggle or of any words round the corner towards Piccadilly. By the time that Mr. Bonteen would have reached the head of the steps leading into the passage, he would have been near Bruton Street with his back completely turned to the scene of the murder. He had walked faster than Mr. Bonteen, having gradually drawn near to him, but he had determined in his own mind that he would not pass the man or get so near him as to attract attention, nor had he done so. He had certainly worn the grey coat which was now produced. The collar of it had not been turned up. The coat was nearly new, and to the best of his belief the collar had never been turned up. He had carried the Life Preserver now produced with him because it had once before been necessary for him to attack garottas in the street. The Life Preserver had never been used, and as it happened was quite new. It had been bought about a month since, in consequence of some commotion about garottas which had just then taken place. But before the purchase of the Life Preserver he had been accustomed to carry some stick or bludgeon at night. Undoubtedly he had quarrelled with Mr. Bonteen before this occasion, and had bought this instrument since the commencement of the quarrel. He had not seen any one on his way from the square to his own house with sufficient observation to enable him to describe such person. He could not remember that he had passed a policeman on his way home. This took place after the hearing of such evidence as was then given. The statements made both by Earl and Fitzgibbon as to what had taken place in the club and afterwards at the door tallied exactly with that afterwards given by Phineas. An accurate measurement of the streets and ways concerned was already furnished. Taking the duration of time, as surmised by Earl and Fitzgibbon, to have passed after they had turned their back on Phineas, a constable proved that the prisoner would have had time to hurry back to the corner of the street he had passed, and to be in the place where Lord Faun saw the man, supposing that Lord Faun had walked at the rate of three miles an hour and that Phineas had walked or run at twice that pace. Lord Faun stated that he was walking very slow, less he thought than three miles an hour, and that the man was hurrying very fast, not absolutely running, but going as he thought at quite double his own pace. The two coats were shown to his lordship. Phine knew nothing of the other coat, which had in truth been taken from the Reverend Mr. Emilius, a rough thick brown coat which had belonged to the preacher for the last two years. Phine's coat was gray in color. Lord Faun looked at the coats very attentively and then said that the man he had seen had certainly not worn the brown coat. The night had been dark, but still he was sure that the coat had been gray. The collar had certainly been turned up. Then a tailor was produced who gave it as his opinion that Phine's coat had lately been worn with the collar raised. It was considered that the evidence given was sufficient to make a remained imperative, and Phineas Phine was committed to Nugget. He was assured that every attention should be paid to his comfort, and was treated with great consideration. Lord Cantrip, who still believed in him, discussed the subject both with the magistrate and with Major Macintosh. Of course the strictest search would be made for a second life preserver, or any such weapon as might have been used. Search had already been made, and no such weapon had been as yet found. Emilius had never been seen with any such weapon. No one about Curson Street or Mayfair could be found who had seen the man with a quick step and raised collar, who doubtless had been the murderer, except Lord Fawn, so that no evidence was forthcoming tending to show that Phineas Phine could not have been that man. The evidence had used to prove that Mr. Emilius, or Melius as he was henceforth called, could not have been on the spot was so very strong that the magistrate told the constables that the man must be released on the next examination unless something could be adduced against him. The magistrate, with the profoundest regret, was unable to agree with Lord Cantrip, in his opinion, that the evidence adduced was not sufficient to demand the temporary committal of Mr. Phine. When the house met on that Thursday at four o'clock everybody was talking about the murder, and certainly four-fifths of the members had made up their mind that Phineas Finn was the murderer. To have known a murdered man is something, but to have been intimate with a murderer is certainly much more. There were many there who were really sorry for poor Bontein, of whom without a doubt the end had come in a very horrible manner, and there were more there who were personally fond of Phineas Finn, to whom the future of the young member was very sad, and the fact that he should have become a murderer very awful. But nevertheless the occasion was not without its consolations. The business of the house is not always exciting, or even interesting. On this afternoon there was not a member who did not feel that something had occurred which added an interest to parliamentary life. Very soon after prayers Mr. Gresham entered the house, and men who had hitherto been behaving themselves after a most unparliamentary fashion, standing about in knots, talking by no means and whispers, moving in and out of the house rapidly, all crowded into their places. Whatever pretense of business had been going on was stopped in a moment, and Mr. Gresham rose to make his statement. It was with the deepest regret, nay, with the most profound sorrow, that he was called upon to inform the house that his right honorable friend and colleague Mr. Bontein had been basely and cruelly murdered during the past night. It was odd then to see how the name of the man, who while he was alive and a member of that house, could not have been pronounced in that assembly without disorder, struck the members almost with dismay. Yes, his friend Mr. Bontein, who had so lately filled the office of President of the Board of Trade, and whose lost the country and that house could so ill bear, had been beaten to death in one of the streets of the Metropolis by the arm of a dastardly ruffian during the silent watches of the night. Then Mr. Gresham paused, and everyone expected that some further statement would be made. He did not know that he had any further communication to make on the subject. Some little time must elapse before he could fill the office. As for adequately supplying the loss, that would be impossible. Mr. Bontein's services to the country, especially in reference to decimal coinage, were too well known to the house to allow of his holding out any such hope. Then he sat down, without having as yet made an allusion to Phineus Finn. But the allusion was soon made. Mr. Dabini rose, and with much graceful and mysterious circumlocution, asked the Prime Minister whether it was true that a member of the house had been arrested, and was now in confinement on the charge of having been concerned in the murder of the late, much lamented President of the Board of Trade. He, Mr. Dabini, had been given to understand that such a charge had been made against an honourable member of that house, who had once been a colleague of Mr. Bontein's, and who had always supported the right honourable gentleman opposite. Then Mr. Gresham rose again. He regretted to say that the honourable member for Tankerville was in custody on that charge. The house would of course understand that he only made that statement as a fact, and that he was offering no opinion as to who was the perpetrator of the murder. The case seemed to be shrouded in great mystery. The two gentlemen had unfortunately differed, but he did not at all think that the house would, on that account, be disposed to attribute guilt so black and damning to a gentleman they had all known so well as the honourable member for Tankerville. So much, and no more, was spoken publicly to the reporters, but members continued to talk about the affair the whole evening. There was nothing perhaps more astonishing than the absence of rancour or abhorrence with which the name of Phineas was mentioned, even by those who felt most certain of his guilt. All those who had been present at the club acknowledged that Bonteen had been the sinner in reference to the transaction there, and it was acknowledged to have been almost a public misfortune that such a man as Bonteen should have been able to prevail against such a one as Phineas Finn in regard to the presence of the latter in the government. Stories which were exaggerated, accounts worse even than the truth, were bandied about as to the perseverance with which the murdered man had destroyed the prospects of the supposed murderer and robbed the country of the services of a good workman. Mr. Gresham, in the official statement which he had made, had as a matter of course said many fine things about Mr. Bonteen. A man can always have fine things said about him for a few hours after his death, but in the small private conferences which were held, the fine things said all referred to Phineas Finn. Mr. Gresham had spoken of a dastardly ruffian in the silent watches, but one would have almost thought from overhearing what was said by various gentlemen in different parts of the house that upon the whole Phineas Finn was thought to have done rather a good thing in putting poor Mr. Bonteen out of the way. And another pleasant feature of excitement was added by the prevalent idea that the Prince had seen and heard the row. Those who had been at the club at the time, of course, knew that this was not the case. But the presence of the Prince at the universe between the row and the murder had really been a fact, and therefore it was only natural that men should allow themselves the delight of mixing the Prince with the whole concern. In remote circles the Prince was undoubtedly supposed to have had a great deal to do with the matter, though whether as a better of the murdered or of the murderer was never plainly declared. A great deal was said about the Prince that evening in the house so that many members were able to enjoy themselves thoroughly. What a God send for Gresham, said one gentleman to Mr. Rattler, very shortly after the strong eulogium which had been uttered on poor Mr. Bonteen by the Prime Minister. Well, yes, I was afraid that poor fellow would never have got on with us. Got on? He'd have been a thorn in Gresham's side as long as he held office. If Finn should be acquitted, you ought to do something handsome for him. Whereupon Mr. Rattler laughed heartily. It will pretty nearly break them up, said Sir Orlando Drout, one of Mr. Dobney's late secretaries of state, to Mr. Robey, Mr. Dobney's late patronage secretary. I don't quite see that. They'll be able to drop their decimal coinage with a good excuse, and that will be a great comfort. They are talking of getting monk to go back to the Board of Trade. Will that strengthen them? Bonteen would have weakened them. The man had got beyond himself and lost his head. They are better without him. I suppose Finn did it, asked Sir Orlando. Not a doubt about it, I'm told. The queer thing is that he should have declared his purpose beforehand to Earl. Gresham says that all that must have been part of his plan, so that is to make men think afterwards that he couldn't have done it. Grogram's idea is that he had planned the murder before he went to the club. Will the Prince have to give evidence? No, no, said Mr. Robey. That's all wrong. The Prince had left the club before the row commenced. Confucius Putt says that the Prince didn't hear a word of it. He was talking to the Prince all the time. Confucius Putt was the distinguished artist with whom the Prince had shaken hands on leaving the club. Lord Drummond was in the Peer's Gallery, and Mr. Boffin was talking to him over the railings. It may be remembered that those two gentlemen had conscientiously left Mr. Dobbins' cabinet because they had been unable to support him in his views about the Church. After such sacrifice on their parts, their minds were of course intent on Church matters. There doesn't seem to be a doubt about it, said Mr. Boffin. Cantrip won't believe it, said the Peer. He was at the colonies with Cantrip, and Cantrip found him very agreeable. Everybody says that he was one of the pleasantest fellows going. This makes it out of the question that they should bring in any Church Bill this session. Do you think so? Oh yes, certainly. There will be nothing else thought of now till the trial. So much the better, said his Lordship. It's an ill wind that blows no one any good. Will they have evidence for a conviction? Oh dear yes, not a doubt about it. Fawn can swear to him, said Mr. Boffin. Barrington Earl was telling his story for the tenth time when he was summoned out of the library to the Duchess of Omnium, who had made her way up into the lobby. Oh, Mr. Earl, do tell me what you really think, said the Duchess. That is just what I can't do. Why not? Because I don't know what to think. He can't have done it, Mr. Earl. That's just what I say to myself, Duchess. But they do say that the evidence is so very strong against him. Very strong. I wish we could get that Lord Fawn out of the way. Ah, but we can't. And will they hang him? If they convict him they will. A man we all knew so well, and just when we had made up our minds to do everything for him, do you know I'm not a bit surprised? I've felt before now as though I should like to have done it myself. He could be very nasty, Duchess. I did so hate that man, but I'd give—oh, I don't know what I'd give—to bring him to life again this minute. What will Lady Laura do? In answer to this, Barrington Earl only shrugged his shoulders. Lady Laura was his cousin. We mustn't give him up, you know, Mr. Earl. What can we do? Surely we can do something. Can't we get it in the papers that he must be innocent so that everybody should be made to think so? And if we could get hold of the lawyers and make them not want to—to destroy him, there's nothing I wouldn't do. There's no getting hold of a judge, I know. No, Duchess. The judges are stone. Not that they are a bit better than anybody else. Only they like to be safe. They do like to be safe. I'm sure we could do it if we put our shoulders to the wheel. I don't believe you know, for a moment, that he murdered him. It was done by Lizzie Eustace's Jew. It will be sifted, of course. But what's the use of sifting if Mr. Fan is to be hung while it's being done? I don't think anything of the police. Do you remember how they bungled about that woman's necklace? I don't mean to give him up, Mr. Earl, and I expect you to help me. Then the Duchess returned home, and as we know, found Madame Ghostler at her house. Nothing whatever was done that night, either in the lords or commons. A statement about Mr. Pontein was made in the upper as well as in the lower house, and after that statement any real work was out of the question. Had Mr. Pontein absolutely been Chancellor of the Exchequer and in the Cabinet when he was murdered, and had Finneas Finn been once more an Under-Secretary of State, the commotion and excitement could hardly have been greater. Even the Duke of St. Bungay had visited the spot, well known to him, as there the urban domains meet of two great Whig peers, with whom and whose predecessors he had long been familiar. He also had known Finneas Finn, and not long since had said civil words to him and of him. He too had, of late days, especially disliked Mr. Pontein, and had almost insisted that the man now murdered should not be admitted into the Cabinet. He had heard what was the nature of the evidence, had heard of the quarrel, the life-preserver, and the gray coat. I suppose he must have done it, said the Duke of St. Bungay to himself as he walked away up Hey Hill. End of Chapter 50, Recording by Patty Cunningham. Chapter 51 of Finneas Redux. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Patty Cunningham. Finneas Redux by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 51 You Think It Shameful. The tidings of what had taken place first reached Lady Laura Kennedy from her brother on his return to Portman Square after the scene in the police court. The object of his visit to Finne's lodgings has been explained, but the nature of Lady Laura's vehemence in urging upon her brother the performance of a very disagreeable task has not been sufficiently described. No brother would willingly go on such a mission from a married sister to a man who had been publicly named as that sister's lover, and no brother could be less likely to do so than Lord Chiltern. But Lady Laura had been very stout in her arguments and very strong-willed in her purpose. The income arising from this money, which had been absolutely her own, would again be exclusively her own should the claim to it on behalf of her husband's estate be abandoned. Surely she might do what she liked with her own, if her brother would not assist her in making this arrangement, it must be done by other means. She was quite willing that it should appear to come to Mr. Finne from her father and not from herself. Did her brother think any ill of her? Did he believe in the calamities of the newspapers? Did he or his wife for a moment conceive that she had a lover? When he looked at her, worn out, withered, an old woman before her time, was it possible that he should so believe? She herself asked him these questions. Lord Chiltern, of course, declared that he had no suspicion of the kind. No indeed, said Lady Laura. I defy anyone to suspect me who knows me, and if so, why am not I as much entitled to help a friend as you might be? You need not even mention my name. He endeavored to make her understand that her name would be mentioned, and others would believe and would say evil things. They cannot say worse than they have said she continued. And yet what harm have they done to me? Or you? Then he demanded why she desired to go so far out of her way with the view of spending her money upon one who was in no way connected with her. Because I like him better than anyone else, she answered boldly. There is very little left for which I care at all, but I do care for his prosperity. He was once in love with me and told me so, but I had chosen to give my hand to Mr. Kennedy. He is not in love with me now, nor I with him. But I choose to regard him as my friend. He assured her over and over again that Finneas Finn would certainly refuse to touch her money. But this she declined to believe. At any rate the trial might be made. He would not refuse money left to him by Will, and why should he not now enjoy that which was intended for him? Then she explained how certain it was that he must speedily vanish out of the world altogether, unless some assurance of an income were made to him. So Lord Chiltern went on his mission, hardly meaning to make the offer, and confident that it would be refused if made. We know the nature of the new trouble in which he found Finneas Finn enveloped. It was such that Lord Chiltern did not open his mouth about money, and now, having witnessed the scene at the police office, he had come back to tell his tale to his sister. She was sitting with his wife when he entered the room. Have you heard anything? He asked at once. Heard what? said his wife. Then you have not heard it. A man has been murdered. What man? said Lady Laura, jumping suddenly from her seat. Not Robert! Lord Chiltern shook his head. You do not mean that Mr. Finne has been killed? Again he shook his head. And then she sat down as though the asking of the two questions had exhausted her. Speak, Oswald, said his wife. Why do you not tell us? Is it one whom we knew? I think that Laura used to know him. Mr. Bontein was murdered last night in the streets. Mr. Bontein, the man who was Mr. Finne's enemy, said Lady Chiltern. Mr. Bontein, said Lady Laura, as though the murder of twenty Mr. Bonteins were nothing to her. Yes, the man whom you talk of as Finne's enemy. It would be better if there were no such talk. And who killed him? said Lady Laura, again getting up and coming close to her brother. Who was it, Oswald? asked his wife. And she also was now too deeply interested to keep her seat. They have arrested two men, said Lord Chiltern. That Jew who married Lady Eustis, and—but there he paused. He had determined beforehand that he would tell his sister the double arrest, that the doubt this implied might lessen the weight of the blow. But now he found it almost impossible to mention the name. Who was the other Oswald? said his wife. Not Finneus! screamed Lady Laura. Yes, indeed, they have arrested him, and I have just come from the court. He had no time to go on, for his sister was crouching prostrate on the floor before him. She had not fainted. Women do not faint under such shocks. But in her agony she had crouched down rather than fallen, as though it were vain to attempt to stand upright with so crushing a weight of sorrow on her back. She uttered one loud shriek, then covering her face with her hands, burst out into a wail of sobs. Lady Chiltern and her brother both tried to raise her, but she would not be lifted. Why will you not hear me through, Laura? said he. You do not think he did it, said his wife. I'm sure he did not, replied Lord Chiltern. The poor woman, half lying, half seated on the floor, still hiding her face with her hands, still bursting with half suppressed sobs, heard and understood both the question and the answer. But the fact was not altered to her, nor the condition of the man she loved. She had not yet begun to think whether it were possible that he should have been guilty of such a crime. She had heard none of the circumstances, and knew nothing of the manner of the man's death. It might be that Phineas had killed the man, bringing himself within the reach of the law, and that yet he should have done nothing to merit her reproaches, hardly even her reprobation. Hitherto she felt only the sorrow, the annihilation of the blow, but not the shame with which it would overwhelm the man for whom she so much coveted the good opinion of the world. You hear what he says, Laura. They are determined to destroy him, she sobbed out through her tears. They are not determined to destroy him at all, said Lord Chiltern. It will have to go by evidence. You had better sit up and let me tell you all. I will tell you nothing till you are seated again. You disgrace yourself by sprawling there. Do not be hard to her, Oswald. I am disgraced, said Lady Laura, slowly rising and placing herself again on the sofa. If there is anything more to tell, you can tell it. I do not care what happens to me now, or who knows it. They cannot make my life worse than it is. Then he told all the story, of the quarrel and the position of the streets, of the coat and the bludgeon, and the three blows, each on the head, by which the man had been killed. And he told them also, how the Jew was said never to have been out of his bed, and how the Jew's coat was not the coat Lord Fawn had seen, and how no stain of blood had been found about the raiment of either of the men. It was the Jew who did it, Oswald, surely, said Lady Chiltern. It was not Finneas Finne who did it, he replied. And they will let him go again? They will let him go when they find out the truth, I suppose. But those fellows blunder so, I would never trust them. He will get some sharp lawyer to look into it, and then perhaps everything will come out. I shall go and see him to-morrow, but there is nothing further to be done. And I must see him, said Lady Laura slowly. Lady Chiltern looked at her husband, and his face became redder than usual with an angry flush. When his sister had pressed him to take her message about the money, he had assured her that he suspected her of no evil, nor had he ever thought evil of her. Since her marriage with Mr. Kennedy, he had seen but little of her, or of her ways of life. When she had separated herself from her husband, he had approved of the separation, and had even offered to assist her should she be in difficulty. While she had been living a sad, lonely life at Dresden, he had simply pitied her, declaring to himself and his wife that her lot in life had been very hard. When these column knees about her and Finneas Finne had reached his ears, or his eyes, as such column knees always will reach the ears and eyes of those whom they are most capable of hurting, he had simply felt a desire to crush some Quintus slide or the like into powder for the offense. He had received Finneas in his own house with all his old friendship. He had even this morning been with the accused man as almost his closest friend, but nevertheless there was creeping into his heart a sense of the shame with which he would be afflicted, should the world really be taught to believe that the man had been his sister's lover. Lady Laura's distress on the present occasion was such as a wife might show, or a girl weeping for her lover, or a mother for her son, or a sister for a brother, but was extravagant and exaggerated in regard to such friendship as might be presumed to exist between the wife of Mr. Robert Kennedy and the member for Tinkerville. He could see that his wife felt this as he did, and he thought it necessary to say something at once that might force his sister to moderate at any rate her language if not her feelings. Two expressions of face were natural to him, one eloquent of good humor in which the reader of countenances would find some promise of coming frolic, and the other replete with anger, sometimes to the extent almost of savagery. All those who were dependent on him were want to watch his face with care and sometimes with fear. When he was angry it would almost seem that he was about to use personal violence on the object of his wrath. At the present moment he was rather grieved than enraged, but there came over his face that look of wrath with which all who knew him were so well acquainted. You cannot see him, he said. Why not I as well as you? If you do not understand I cannot tell you, but you must not see him, and you shall not. Who will hinder me? If you put me to it I will see that you are hindered. What is the man to you that you should run the risk of evil tongues for the sake of visiting him in jail? You cannot save his life, though it may be that you might endanger it. Oswald, she said very slowly, I do not know that I am in any way under your charge or bound to submit to your orders. You are my sister, and I have loved you as a sister. How should it be possible that my seeing him should endanger his life? It will make people think that the things are true which have been said. And they will hang him because I love him? I do love him. Violet knows how well I have always loved him. Lord Chiltern turned his angry face upon his wife. Lady Chiltern put her arm round her sister-in-law's waist, and whispered some words into her ear. What is that to me, continued the half frantic woman? I do love him. I have always loved him. I shall love him to the end. He is all my life to me. Shame should prevent your telling it, said Lord Chiltern. I feel no shame. There is no disgrace in love. I did disgrace myself when I gave the hand for which he asked to another man, because—because. But she was too noble to tell her brother even then, that at the moment of her life to which she was eluding, she had married the rich man, rejecting the poor man's hand, because she had given up all her fortune to the payment of her brother's debts. And he, though he had well known what he had owed to her, and had never been easy till he had paid the debt, remembered nothing of all this now. No lending and paying back of money could alter the nature either of his feelings or his duty in such an emergency as this. And, mind you, she continued, turning to her sister-in-law, there is no place for the shame of which he is thinking, and she pointed her finger out at her brother. I love him, as a mother might love her child, I fancy, but he has no love for me—none—none. When I am with him I am only a trouble to him. He comes to me because he is good, but he would sooner be with you. He did love me once, but then I could not afford to be so love. You can do no good by seeing him, said her brother. But I will see him. You need not scowl at me as though you wish to strike me. I have gone through that which makes me different from other women, and I care not what they say of me. Violet understands it all, but you understand nothing. Be calm, Laura, said her sister-in-law, and Oswald will do all that can be done. But they will hang him. Nonsense, said her brother. He has not been as yet committed for his trial. Heaven knows how much has to be done. It is as likely as not that in three days' time he will be out at large, and all the world will be running after him just because he has been in Newgate. But who will look after him? He has plenty of friends. I will see that he is not left without everything he wants. But he will want money. He has plenty of money for that. Do you take it quietly, and not make a fool of yourself, if the worst comes to the worst? Oh heavens! Listen to me, if you can listen. Should the worst come to the worst, which I believe to be altogether impossible? Mind, I think it next to impossible, or I have never for a moment believed him to be guilty. We will visit him together. Goodbye now. I am going to see that friend of his, Mr. Lowe. So saying, Lord children went, leaving the two women together. Why should he be so savage with me, said Lady Laura? He does not mean to be savage. Does he speak to you like that? What right has he to tell me of shame? Has my life been so bad and his so good? Do you think it shameful that I should love this man? She sat looking into her friend's face, but her friend for a while hesitated to answer. You shall tell me, Violet. We have known each other so well that I can bear to be told by you. Do not you love him? I love him? Certainly not. But you did. Not as you mean. Who can define love and say what it is? There are so many kinds of love. We say that we love the Queen. Pshaw. And we are to love all our neighbors. But as men and women talk of love, I never at any moment of my life loved any man but my husband. Mr. Finn was a great favorite with me. Always. Indeed he was. As any other man might be, or any woman, he is so still, and with all my heart I hope that this may be untrue. It is false as the devil. It must be false. Can you think of the man, his sweetness, the gentle nature of him, his open, free speech and courage, and believe that he would go behind his enemy and knock his brains out in the dark? I can conceive it of myself that I should do it, much easier than of him. Oswald says it is false, but he says it as partly believing that it is true. If it be true, I will hang myself. There will be nothing left among men or women fit to live for. You think it shameful that I should love him. I have not said so. But you do. I think there is cause for shame in your confessing it. I do confess it. You ask me and press me, and because we have loved one another so well, I must answer you. If a woman, a married woman, be oppressed by such a feeling, she should lay it down at the bottom of her heart, out of sight, never mentioning it, even to herself. You talk of the heart as though we could control it. The heart will follow the thoughts, and they may be controlled. I am not passionate perhaps as you are, and I think I can control my heart, but my fortune has been kind to me, and I have never been tempted. Laura, do not think I am preaching to you. Oh no, but your husband, think of him, and think of mine. You have babies. May God make me thankful. I have every good thing on earth that God can give. And what have I? To see that man prosper in life, who they tell me is a murderer, that man who is now in a felon's jail, whom they will hang for ought we know. To see him go forward and justify my thoughts of him. That yesterday was all I had. Today I have nothing, except the shame with which you and Oswald say that I have covered myself. Laura, I have never said so. I saw it in your eye when he accused me, and I know that it is shameful. I do know that I am covered with shame, but I can bear my own disgrace better than his danger. After a long pause, a silence of probably some fifteen minutes, she spoke again. If Robert should die, what would happen then? It would be a release, I suppose, said Lady Chiltern in a voice so low that it was almost a whisper. A release indeed, and I would become that man's wife the next day at the foot of the gallows, if he would have me. But he would not have me.