CHAPTER XLI. — THEY MEET AGAIN.
At four o’clock on the morning of Beatrice’s capture Brandon was roused by a rap at his bedroom door. He rose at once, and slipping on his dressing-gown, opened it. A man entered.
“Well?” said Brandon.
“Something has happened.”
“What?”
“She didn’t get home last night. The landlady is sitting up for her, and is terribly frightened.”
“Did you make any inquiries?”
“No, Sir; I came straight here in obedience to your directions.”
“Is that all you know?”
“All.”
“Very well,” said Brandon, calmly, “you may go.”
The man retired. Brandon sat down and buried his head in his hands. Such news as this was sufficient to overwhelm any one. The man knew nothing more than this, that she had not returned home and that the landlady was frightened. In his opinion only one of two things could have happened: either Langhetti had taken her somewhere, or she had been abducted.
A thousand fancies followed one another in quick succession. It was too early as yet to go forth to make inquiries; and he therefore was forced to sit still and form conjectures as to what ought to be done in case his conjecture might be true. Sitting there, he took a rapid survey of all the possibilities of the occasion, and laid his plans accordingly.
Brandon had feared some calamity, and with this fear had arranged to have some one in the house who might give him information. The information which he most dreaded had come; it had come, too, in the midst of a time of triumph, when she had become one of the supreme singers of the age, and had gained all that her warmest admirer might desire for her.
If she had not been foully dealt with she must have gone with Langhetti. But if so—where—and why? What possible reason might Langhetti have for taking her away? This conjecture was impossible.
Yet if this was impossible, and if she had not gone with Langhetti, with whom could she have gone? If not a friend, then it must have been with an enemy. But with what enemy? There was only one.
He thought of Potts. He knew that this wretch was capable of any villainy, and would not hesitate at any thing to regain possession of the one who had fled from him. Why he should wish to take the trouble to regain possession of her, except out of pure villainy, he could not imagine.
With such thoughts as these the time passed heavily. Six o’clock at last came, and he set out for the purpose of making inquiries. He went first to the theatre. Here, after some trouble, he found those who had the place in charge, and, by questioning them, he learned that Beatrice had left by herself in a cab for her home, and that Langhetti had remained some time later. He then went to Beatrice’s lodgings to question the landlady. From there he went to Langhetti’s lodgings, and found that Langhetti had come home about one o’clock and was not yet up.
Beatrice, therefore, had left by herself; and had not gone any where with Langhetti. She had not returned home. It seemed to him most probable that either voluntarily or involuntarily she had come under the control of Potts. What to do under the circumstances was now the question.
One course seemed to him the most direct and certain; namely, to go up to Brandon at once and make inquiries there. From the letters which Philips had sent he had an idea of the doings of Potts. Other sources of information had also been secured. It was not his business to do any thing more than to see that Beatrice should fall into no harm.
By ten o’clock he had acted upon this idea, and was at the railway station to take the express train. He reached Brandon village about dusk. He went to the inn in his usual disguise as Mr. Smithers, and sent up to the Hall for Mr. Potts.
Potts was not there. He then sent for Philips. After some delay Philips came. His usual timidity was now if possible still more marked, and he was at first too embarrassed to speak.
“Where is Potts?” asked Brandon, abruptly.
“In London, Sir.”
“He has been there about three weeks, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“So you wrote me. You thought when he went that he was going to hunt up his daughter.”
“So I conjectured.”
“And he hasn’t got back yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Has he written any word?”
“None that I know of.”
“Did you hear any of them say why he went to get her?”
“Not particularly; but I guessed from what they said that he was afraid of having her at large.”
“Afraid? Why?”
“Because she knew some secret of theirs.”
“Secret! What secret?” asked Brandon.
“You know, Sir, I suppose,” said Philips, meekly.
Brandon had carried Asgeelo with him, as he was often in the habit of doing on his journeys. After his interview with Philips he stood outside on the veranda of the village inn for some time, and then went around through the village, stopping at a number of houses. Whatever it was that he was engaged in, it occupied him for several hours, and he did not get back to the inn till midnight.
On the following morning he sent up to the Hall, but Potts had not yet returned. Philips came to tell him that he had just received a telegraphic dispatch informing him that Potts would be back that day about one o’clock. This intelligence at last seemed to promise something definite.
Brandon found enough to occupy him during the morning among the people of the neighborhood. He seemed to know every body, and had something to say to every one. Yet no one looked at him or spoke to him unless he took the initiative. Last of all, he went to the tailor’s, where he spent an hour.
Asgeelo had been left at the inn, and sat there upon a bench outside, apparently idle and aimless. At one o’clock Brandon returned and walked up and down the veranda.
In about half an hour his attention was attracted by the sound of wheels. It was Potts’s barouche, which came rapidly up the road. In it was Potts and a young lady.
Brandon stood outside of the veranda, on the steps, in such a position as to be most conspicuous, and waited there till the carriage should reach the place. Did his heart beat faster as he recognized that form, as he marked the settled despair which had gathered over that young face—a face that had the fixed and unalterable wretchedness which marks the ideal face of the Mater Dolorosa?
Brandon stood in such a way that Potts could not help seeing him. He waved his arm, and Potts stopped the carriage at once.
Potts was seated on the front seat, and Beatrice on the back one. Brandon walked up to the carriage and touched his hat.
“Mr. Smithers!” cried Potts, with his usual volubility. “Dear me, Sir. This is really a most unexpected pleasure, Sir.”
While Potts spoke Brandon looked steadily at Beatrice, who cast upon him a look of wonder. She then sank back in her seat; but her eyes were still fastened on his as though fascinated. Then, beneath the marble whiteness of her face a faint tinge appeared, a warm flush, that was the sign of hope rising from despair. In her eyes there gleamed the flash of recognition; for in that glance each had made known all its soul to the other. In her mind there was no perplexing question as to how or why he came here, or wherefore he wore that disguise; the one thought that she had was the consciousness that He was here—here before her.
All this took place in an instant, and Potts, who was talking, did not notice the hurried glance; or if he did, saw in it nothing but a casual look cast by one stranger upon another.
“I arrived here yesterday,” said Brandon. “I wished to see you about a matter of very little importance perhaps to you, but it is one which is of interest to me. But I am detaining you. By-the-way, I am somewhat in a hurry, and if this lady will excuse me I will drive up with you to the Hall, so as to lose no time.”
“Delighted, Sir, delighted!” cried Potts. “Allow me, Mr. Smithers, to introduce you to my daughter.”
Brandon held out his hand. Beatrice held out hers. It was cold as ice, but the fierce thrill that shot through her frame at the touch of his feverish hand brought with it such an ecstasy that Beatrice thought it was worth while to have undergone the horror of the past twenty-four hours for the joy of this one moment.
Brandon stepped into the carriage and seated himself by her side. Potts sat opposite. He touched her. He could hear her breathing. How many months had passed since they sat so near together! What sorrows had they not endured! Now they were side by side, and for a moment they forgot that their bitterest enemy sat before them.
There, before them, was the man who was not only a deadly enemy to each, but who made it impossible for them to be more to one another than they now were. Yet for a time they forgot this in the joy of the ecstatic meeting. At the gate Potts got out and excused himself to Brandon, saying that he would be up directly.
“Entertain this gentleman till I come,” said he to Beatrice, “for he is a great friend of mine.”
Beatrice said nothing, for the simple reason that she could not speak.
They drove on. Oh, joy! that baleful presence was for a moment removed. The driver saw nothing as he drove under the overarching elms—the elms under which Brandon had sported in his boyhood. He saw not the long, fervid glance that they cast at one another, in which each seemed to absorb all the being of the other; he saw not the close clasped hands with which they clung to one another now as though they would thus cling to each other forever and prevent separation. He saw not the swift, wild movement of Brandon when for one instant he flung his arm around Beatrice and pressed her to his heart. He heard not the beating of that strong heart; he heard not the low sigh of rapture with which for but one instant the head of Beatrice sank upon her lover’s breast. It was but for an instant. Then she sat upright again, and their hands sought each other, thus clinging, thus speaking by a voice which was fully intelligible to each, which told how each felt in the presence of the other love unutterable, rapture beyond expression.
The alighted from the carriage. Beatrice led the way into the drawing-room. No one was there. Brandon went into a recess of one of the windows which commanded a view of the Park.
“What a beautiful view!” said he, in a conventional voice.
She came up and stood beside him.
“Oh, my darling! Oh, my darling!” he cried, over and over again; and flinging his arms around her he covered her face with burning kisses. Her whole being seemed in that supreme moment to be absorbed in his. All consciousness of any other thing than this unspeakable joy was lost to her. Before all others she was lofty, high-souled, serene, self-possessed—with him she was nothing, she lost herself in him.
“Do not fear, my soul’s darling,” said he; “no harm shall come. My power is every where—even in this house. All in the village are mine. When my blow falls you shall be saved.”
She shuddered.
“You will leave me here?”
“Heavens! I must,” he groaned; “we are the sport of circumstances. Oh, my darling!” he continued, “you know my story, and my vengeance.”
“I know it all,” she whispered. “I would wish to die if I could die by your hand.”
“I will save you. Oh, love—oh, soul of mine—my arms are around you! You are watched—but watched by me.”
“You do not know,” she sighed. “Alas! your father’s voice must be obeyed, and your vengeance must be taken.”
“Fear not,” said he; “I will guard you.”
She answered nothing. Could she confide in his assurance? She could not. She thought with horror of the life before her. What could Brandon do? She could not imagine.
They stood thus in silence for a long time. Each felt that this was their last meeting, and each threw all life and all thought into the rapture of this long and ecstatic embrace. After this the impassable gulf must reopen. She was of the blood of the accursed. They must separate forever.
He kissed her. He pressed her a thousand times to his heart. His burning kisses forced a new and feverish life into her, which roused all her nature. Never before had he dared so to fling open all his soul to her; never before had he so clasped her to his heart; but now this moment was a break in the agony of a long separation—a short interval which must soon end and give way to the misery which had preceded it—and so he yielded to the rapture of the hour, and defied the future.
The moments extended themselves. They were left thus for a longer time than they hoped. Potts did not come. They were still clinging to one another. She had flung her arms around him in the anguish of her unspeakable love, he had clasped her to his wildly-throbbing heart, and he was straining her there recklessly and despairingly, when suddenly a harsh voice burst upon their ears.
“The devil!”
Beatrice did not hear it. Brandon did, and turned his face. Potts stood before them.
“Mr. Potts!” said he, as he still held Beatrice close to his heart, “this poor young lady is in wretched health. She nearly fainted. I had to almost carry her to the window. Will you be good enough to open it, so as to give her some air? Is she subject to these faints? Poor child!” he said; “the air of this place ought surely to do you good. I sympathize with you most deeply, Mr. Potts.”
“She’s sickly—that’s a fact,” said Potts. “I’m very sorry that you have had so much trouble—I hope you’ll excuse me. I only thought that she’d entertain you, for she’s very clever. Has all the accomplishments—”
“Perhaps you’d better call some one to take care of her,” interrupted Brandon.
“Oh, I’ll fetch some one. I’m sorry it happened so. I hope you won’t blame me, Sir,” said Potts, humbly, and he hurried out of the room.
Beatrice had not moved. She heard Brandon speak to some one, and at first gave herself up for lost, but in an instant she understood the full meaning of his words. To his admirable presence of mind she added her own. She did not move, but allowed her head to rest where it was, feeling a delicious joy in the thought that Potts was looking on and was utterly deceived. When he left to call a servant she raised her head and gave Brandon a last look expressive of her deathless, her unutterable love. Again and again he pressed her to his heart. Then the noise of servants coming in roused him. He gently placed her on a sofa, and supported her with a grave and solemn face.
“Here, Mrs. Compton. Take charge of her,” said Potts. “She’s been trying to faint.”
Mrs. Compton came up, and kneeling down kissed Beatrice’s hands. She said nothing.
“Oughtn’t she to have a doctor?” said Brandon.
“Oh no—she’ll get over it. Take her to her room, Mrs. Compton.”
“Can the poor child walk?” asked Brandon.
Beatrice rose. Mrs. Compton asked her to take her arm. She did so, and leaning heavily upon it, walked away.
{Illustration: “THE DEVIL!” ... POTTS STOOD BEFORE THEM.}
“She seems very delicate,” said Brandon. “I did not know that you had a daughter.”
Potts sighed.
“I have,” said he, “to my sorrow.”
“To your sorrow!” said Brandon, with exquisitely simulated sympathy.
“Yes,” replied the other. “I wouldn’t tell it to every one—but you, Mr. Smithers, are different from most people. You see I have led a roving life. I had to leave her out in China for many years with a female guardian. I suppose she was not very well taken care of. At any rate, she got acquainted out there with a strolling Italian vagabond, a drum-major in one of the regiments, named Langhetti, and this villain gained her affections by his hellish arts. He knew that I was rich, and, like an unprincipled adventurer, tried to get her, hoping to get a fortune. I did not know any thing about this till after her arrival home. I sent for her some time ago and she came. From the first she was very sulky. She did not treat me like a daughter at all. On one occasion she actually abused me and called me names to my face. She called me a Thug! What do you think of that, Mr. Smithers?”
The other said nothing, but there was in his face a horror which Potts considered as directed toward his unnatural offspring.
“She was discontented here, though I let her have every thing. I found out in the end all about it. At last she actually ran away. She joined this infamous Langhetti, whom she had discovered in some way or other. They lived together for some time, and then went to London, where she got a situation as an actress. You can imagine by that,” said Potts, with sanctimonious horror, “how low she had fallen.
“Well, I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid to make a public demand for her through the law, for then it would all get into the papers; it would be an awful disgrace, and the whole county would know it. So I waited, and a few weeks ago I went to London. A chance occurred at last which threw her in my way. I pointed out to her the awful nature of the life she was leading, and offered to forgive her all if she would only come back. The poor girl consented, and here she is. But I’m very much afraid,” said Potts in conclusion, with a deep sigh, “that her constitution is broken up. She’s very feeble.”
Brandon said nothing.
“Excuse me for troubling you with my domestic affairs; but I thought I ought to explain, for you have had such trouble with her yourself.”
“Oh, don’t mention it. I quite pitied the poor child, I assure you; and I sincerely hope that the seclusion of this place, combined with the pure sea-air, may restore her spirits and invigorate her in mind as well as in body. And now, Mr. Potts, I will mention the little matter that brought me here. I have had business in Cornwall, and was on my way home when I received a letter summoning me to America. I may have to go to California. I have a very honest servant, whom I have quite a strong regard for, and I am anxious to put him in some good country house till I get back. I’m afraid to trust him in London, and I can’t take him with me. He is a Hindu, but speaks English and can do almost any thing. I at once remembered you, especially as you were close by me, and thought that In your large establishment you might find a place for him. How is it?”
“My dear Sir, I shall be proud and happy. I should like, above all things, to have a man here who is recommended by one like you. The fact is, my servants are all miserable, and a good one can not often be had. I shall consider it a favor if I can get him.”
“Well, that is all arranged—I have a regard for him, as I said before, and want to have him in a pleasant situation. His name is Asgeelo, but we are in the habit of calling him Cato—”
“Cato! a very good name. Where is he now?”
“At the hotel. I will send him to you at once,” said Brandon, rising.
“The sooner the better,” returned Potts.
“By-the-way, my junior speaks very encouragingly about the prospects of the Brandon Bank—”
“Does he?” cried Potts, gleefully. “Well, I do believe we’re going ahead of every thing.”
“That’s right. Boldness is the true way to success.”
“Oh, never fear. We are bold enough.”
“Good. But I am hurried, and I must go. I will send Asgeelo up, and give him a letter.”
With these words Brandon bowed an adieu and departed. Before evening Asgeelo was installed as one of the servants.
CHAPTER XLII. — LANGHETTI’S ATTEMPT.
Two days after Brandon’s visit to Potts, Langhetti reached the village.
A searching examination in London had led him to believe that Beatrice might now be sought for at Brandon Hall. The police could do nothing for him. He had no right to her. If she was of age, she was her own mistress, and must make application herself for her safety and deliverance; if she was under age, then she must show that she was treated with cruelty. None of these things could be done, and Langhetti despaired of accomplishing any thing.
The idea of her being once more in the power of a man like Potts was frightful to him. This idea filled his mind continually, to the exclusion of all other thoughts. His opera was forgotten. One great horror stood before him, and all else became of no account. The only thing for him to do was to try to save her. He could find no way, and therefore determined to go and see Potts himself.
It was a desperate undertaking. From Beatrice’s descriptions he had an idea of the life from which she had fled, and other things had given him a true idea of the character of Potts. He knew that there was scarcely any hope before him. Yet he went, to satisfy himself by making a last effort.
He was hardly the man to deal with one like Potts. Sensitive, high-toned, passionate, impetuous in his feelings, he could not command that calmness which was the first essential in such an interview. Besides, he was broken down by anxiety and want of sleep. His sorrow for Beatrice had disturbed all his thoughts. Food and sleep were alike abominable to him. His fine-strung nerves and delicate organization, in which every feeling had been rendered more acute by his mode of life, were of that kind which could feel intensely wherever the affections were concerned. His material frame was too weak for the presence of such an ardent soul. Whenever any emotion of unusual power appeared he sank rapidly.
So now, feverish, emaciated, excited to an intense degree, he appeared in Brandon to confront a cool, unemotional villain, who scarcely ever lost his presence of mind. Such a contest could scarcely be an equal one. What could he bring forward which could in any way affect such a man? He had some ideas in his own mind which he imagined might be of service, and trusted more to impulse than any thing else. He went up early in the morning to Brandon Hall.
Potts was at home, and did not keep Langhetti long waiting. There was a vast contrast between these two men—the one coarse, fat, vulgar, and strong; the other refined, slender, spiritual, and delicate, with his large eyes burning in their deep sockets, and a strange mystery in his face.
“I am Paolo Langhetti,” said he, abruptly—“the manager of the Covent Garden Theatre.”
“You are, are you?” answered Potts, rudely; “then the sooner you get out of this the better. The devil himself couldn’t be more impudent. I have just saved my daughter from your clutches, and I’m going to pay you off, too, my fine fellow, before long.”
“Your daughter!” said Langhetti. “What she is, and who she is, you very well know. If the dead could speak they would tell a different story.”
“What the devil do you mean,” cried Potts, “by the dead? At any rate you are a fool; for very naturally the dead can’t speak; but what concern that has with my daughter I don’t know. Mind, you are playing a dangerous game in trying to bully me.”
Potts spoke fiercely and menacingly. Langhetti’s impetuous goal kindled to a new fervor at this insulting language. He stretched out his long, thin hand toward Potts, and said:
“I hold your life and fortune in my hand. Give up that girl whom you call your daughter.”
Potts stood for a moment staring.
“The devil you do!” he cried, at last. “Come, I call that good, rich, racy! Will your sublime Excellency have the kindness to explain yourself? If my life is in your hand it’s in a devilish lean and weak one. It strikes me you’ve got some kink in your brain—some notion or other. Out with it, and let us see what you’re driving at!”
“Do you know a man named Cigole?” said Langhetti.
“Cigole!” replied Potts, after a pause, in which he had stared hard at Langhetti; “well, what if I do? Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don’t.”
“He is in my power,” said Langhetti, vehemently.
“Much good may he do you then, for I’m sure when he was in my power he never did any good to me.”
“He will do good in this case, at any rate,” said Langhetti, with an effort at calmness. “He was connected with you in a deed which you must remember, and can tell to the world what he knows.”
“Well, what if he does?” said Potts.
“He will tell,” cried Langhetti, excitedly, “the true story of the Despard murder.”
“Ah!” said Potts, “now the murder’s out. That’s what I thought. Don’t you suppose I saw through you when you first began to speak so mysteriously? I knew that you had learned some wonderful story, and that you were going to trot it out at the right time. But if you think you’re going to bully me you’ll find it hard work.
“Cigole is in my power,” said Langhetti, fiercely.
“And so you think I am, too?” sneered Potts.
“Partly so.”
“Why?”
“Because he was an accomplice of yours in the Despard murder.”
“So he says, no doubt; but who’ll believe him?”
“He is going to turn Queen’s evidence!” said Langhetti, solemnly.
“Queen’s evidence!” returned Potts, contemptuously, “and what’s his evidence worth—the evidence of a man like that against a gentleman of unblemished character?”
“He will be able to show what the character of that gentleman is,” rejoined Langhetti.
“Who will believe him?”
“No one can help it.”
“You believe him, no doubt. You and he are both Italians—both dear friends—and both enemies of mine; but suppose I prove to the world conclusively that Cigole is such a scoundrel that his testimony is worthless?”
“You can’t,” cried Langhetti, furiously.
Potts cast a look of contempt at him—
“Can’t I!” He resumed: “How very simple, how confiding you must be, my dear Langhetti! Let me explain my meaning. You got up a wild charge against a gentleman of character and position about a murder. In the first place, you seem to forget that the real murderer has long since been punished. That miserable devil of a Malay was very properly convicted at Manilla, and hanged there. It was twenty years ago. What English court would consider the case again after a calm and impartial Spanish court has settled it finally, and punished the criminal? They did so at the time when the case was fresh, and I came forth honored and triumphant. You now bring forward a man who, you hint, will make statements against me. Suppose he does? What then? Why, I will show what this man is. And you, my dear Langhetti, will be the first one whom I will bring up against him. I will bring you up under oath, and make you tell how this Cigole—this man who testifies against me—once made a certain testimony in Sicily against a certain Langhetti senior, by which that certain Langhetti senior was betrayed to the Government, and was saved only by the folly of two Englishmen, one of whom was this same Despard. I will show that this Langhetti senior was your father, and that the son, instead of avenging, or at any rate resenting, his father’s wrong, is now a bosom friend of his father’s intended murderer—that he has urged him on against me. I will show, my dear Langhetti, how you have led a roving life, and, when a drum-major at Hong Kong, won the affections of my daughter; how you followed her here, and seduced her away from a kind father; how at infinite risk I regained her; how you came to me with audacious threats; and how only the dread of further scandal, and my own anxious love for my daughter, prevented me from handing you over to the authorities. I will prove you to be a scoundrel of the vilest description, and, after such proof as this, what do you think would be the verdict of an English jury, or of any judge in any land; and what do you think would be your own fate? Answer me that.”
Potts spoke with savage vehemence. The frightful truth flashed at once across Langhetti’s mind that Potts had it in his power here to show all this to the world. He was overwhelmed. He had never conceived the possibility of this. Potts watched him silently, with a sneer on his face.
“Don’t you think that you had better go and comfort yourself with your dear friend Cigole, your father’s intended murderer?” said he at length. “Cigole told me all about this long ago. He told me many things about his life which would be slightly damaging to his character as a witness, but I don’t mind telling you that the worst thing against him in English eyes is his betrayal of your father. But this seems to have been a very slight matter to you. It’s odd too; I’ve always supposed that Italians understood what vengeance means.”
Langhetti’s face bore an expression of agony which he could not conceal. Every word of Potts stung him to the soul. He stood for some time in silence. At last, without a word, he walked out of the room.
His brain reeled. He staggered rather than walked. Potts looked after him with a smile of triumph. He left the Hall and returned to the village.
CHAPTER XLIII. — THE STRANGER.
A few weeks after Langhetti’s visit Potts had a new visitor at the bank. The stranger entered the bank parlor noiselessly, and stood quietly waiting for Potts to be disengaged. That worthy was making some entries in a small memorandum-book. Turning his head, he saw the newcomer. Potts looked surprised, and the stranger said, in a peculiar voice, somewhat gruff and hesitating,
“Mr. Potts?”
“Yes,” said Potts, looking hard at his visitor.
He was a man of singular aspect. His hair was long, parted in the middle, and straight. He wore dark colored spectacles. A thick, black beard ran under his chin. His linen was not over-clean, and he wore a long surtout coat.
“I belong to the firm of Bigelow, Higginson, & Co., Solicitors, London.—I am the Co.”
“Well!”
“The business about which I have come is one of some importance. Are we secure from interruption?”
“Yes,” said Potts, “as much as I care about being. I don’t know any thing in particular that I care about locking the doors for.”
“Well, you know best,” said the stranger. “The business upon which I have come concerns you somewhat, but your son principally.”
Potts started, and looked with eager inquiry at the stranger.
“It is such a serious case,” said the latter, “that my seniors thought, before taking any steps in the matter, it would be best to consult you privately.”
“Well,” returned Potts, with a frown, “what is this wonderful case?”
“Forgery,” said the stranger.
Potts started to his feet with a ghastly face, and stood speechless for some time.
“Do you know who you’re talking to?” said he, at last.
“John Potts, of Brandon Hall, I presume,” said the stranger, coolly. “My business concerns him somewhat, but his son still more.”
“What the devil do you mean?” growled Potts, in a savage tone.
“Forgery,” said the stranger. “It is an English word, I believe. Forgery, in which your son was chief agent. Have I made myself understood?”
Potts looked at him again, and then slowly went to the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.
“That’s right,” said the stranger, quietly.
“You appear to take things easy,” rejoined Potts, angrily; “but let me tell you, if you come to bully me you’ve got into the wrong shop.”
“You appear somewhat heated. You must be calm, or else we can not get to business; and in that case I shall have to leave.”
“I don’t see how that would be any affliction,” said Potts, with a sneer.
“That’s because you don’t understand my position, or the state of the present business. For if I leave it will be the signal for a number of interested parties to make a combined attack on you.”
“An attack?”
“Yes.”
“Who is there?” said Potts, defiantly.
“Giovanni Cavallo, for one; my seniors, Messrs. Bigelow & Higginson, and several others.
“Never heard of any of them before.”
“Perhaps not. But if you write to Smithers & Co. they will tell you that Bigelow, Higginson, & Co. are their solicitors, and do their confidential business.”
“Smithers & Co.?” said Potts, aghast.
“Yes. It would not be for your interest for Bigelow, Higginson, & Co. to show Smithers & Co. the proofs which they have against you, would it?”
Potts was silent. An expression of consternation came over his face. He plunged his hands deep in his pockets and bowed his head frowningly.
“It is all bosh,” said he, at last, raising his head. “Let them show and be d—-d. What have they got to show?”
“I will answer your question regularly,” said the stranger, “in accordance with my instructions”—and, drawing a pocket-book from his pocket, he began to read from some memoranda written there.
“1st. The notes to which the name of Ralph Brandon is attached, 150 in number, amounting to £93,500.”
“Pooh!” said Potts.
“These forgeries were known to several besides your son and yourself, and one of these men will testify against you. Others who know Brandon’s signature swear that this lacks an important point of distinction common to all the Brandon signatures handed down from father to son. You were foolish to leave these notes afloat. They have all been bought up on a speculation by those who wished to make the Brandon property a little dearer.”
“I don’t think they’ll make a fortune out of the speculation,” said Potts, who was stifling with rage. “D—n them! who are they?”
“Well, there are several witnesses who are men of such character that if my seniors sent them to Smithers & Co. Smithers & Co. would believe that you were guilty. In a court of law you would have no better chance. One of these witnesses says he can prove that your true name is Briggs.”
At this Potts bounded from his chair and stepped forward with a terrific oath.
“You see, your son’s neck is in very considerable danger.”
“Yours is in greater,” said Potts, with menacing eyes.
“Not at all. Even supposing that you were absurd enough to offer violence to an humble subordinate like me, it would not interfere with the policy of Messrs. Bigelow, Higginson, & Co., who are determined to make money out of this transaction. So you see it’s absurd to talk of violence.”
The stranger took no further notice of Potts, but looked again at his memoranda; while the latter, whose face was now terrific from the furious passions which it exhibited, stood like a wild beast in a cage, “willing to wound, but yet afraid to strike.”
“The next case,” said the stranger, “is the Thornton forgery.”
“Thornton!” exclaimed Potts, with greater agitation.
“Yes,” said the stranger. “In connection with the Despard murder there were two sets of forgeries; one being the Thornton correspondence, and the other your correspondence with the Bank of Good Hope.”
“Heavens! what’s all this?” cried Potts. “Where have you been unearthing this rubbish?”
“First,” said the stranger, without noticing Potts’s exclamation, “there are the letters to Thornton, Senior, twenty years ago, in which an attempt was made to obtain Colonel Despard’s money for yourself. One Clark, an accomplice of yours, presented the letter. The forgery was at once detected. Clark might have escaped, but he made an effort at burglary, was caught, and condemned to transportation. He had been already out once before, and this time received a new brand in addition to the old ones.”
Potts did not say a word, but sat stupefied.
“Thornton, Junior, is connected with us, and his testimony is valuable, as he was the one who detected the forgery. He also was the one who went to the Cape of Good Hope, where he had the pleasure of meeting with you. This brings me to the third case,” continued the stranger.
“Letters were sent to the Cape of Good Hope, ordering money to be paid to John Potts. Thornton, Senior, fearing from the first attempt that a similar one would be made at the Cape, where the deceased had funds, sent his son there. Young Thornton reached the place just before you did, and would have arrested you, but the proof was not sufficient.”
“Aha!” cried Potts, grasping at this—“not sufficient proof! I should think not.” His voice was husky and his manner nervous.
“I said ‘was not’—but Messrs. Bigelow, Higginson, & Co. have informed me that there are parties now in communication with them who can prove how, when, where, and by whom the forgeries were executed.”
“It’s a d——d infernal lie!” roared Potts, in a fresh burst of anger.
“I only repeat what they state. The man has already written out a statement in full, and is only waiting for my return to sign it before a magistrate. This will be a death-warrant for your son; for Messrs. Bigelow, Higginson, & Co. will have him arrested at once. You are aware that he has no chance of escape. The amount is too enormous, and the proof is too strong.”
“Proof!” cried Potts, desperately; “who would believe any thing against a man like me, John Potts—a man of the county?”
“English law is no respecter of persons,” said the stranger. “Rank goes for nothing. But if it did make class distinctions, the witnesses about these documents are of great influence. There is Thornton of Holby, and Colonel Henry Despard at the Cape of Good Hope, with whom Messrs. Bigelow, Higginson, & Co. have had correspondence. There are also others.”
“It’s all a lie!” exclaimed Potts, in a voice which was a little tremulous. “Who is this fool who has been making out papers?”
“His name is Philips; true name Lawton. He tells a very extraordinary story; very extraordinary indeed.”
The stranger’s peculiar voice was now intensified in its odd, harsh intonations. The effect on Potts was overwhelming. For a moment he was unable to speak.
“Philips!” he gasped, at length.
“Yes. You sent him on business to Smithers & Co. He has not yet returned. He does not intend to, for he was found out by Messrs. Bigelow, Higginson, & Co., and you know how timid he is. They have succeeded in extracting the truth from him. As I am in a hurry, and you, too, must be busy,” continued the stranger, with unchanged accents, “I will now come to the point. These forged papers involve an amount to the extent of—Brandon forgeries, £93,500; Thornton papers, £5000; Bank of Good Hope, £4000; being in all £102,500. Messrs. Bigelow, Higginson, & Co. have instructed me to say that they will sell these papers to you at their face without charging interest. They will hand them over to you and you can destroy them, in which case, of course, the charge must be dropped.”
“Philips!” cried Potts. “I’ll have that devil’s blood!”
“That would be murder,” said the stranger, with a peculiar emphasis.
His tone stung Potts to the quick.
“You appear to take me for a born fool,” he cried, striding up and down.
“Not at all. I am only an agent carrying out the instructions of others.”
Potts suddenly stopped in his walk.
“Have you all those papers about you?” he hissed.
“All.”
Potts looked all around. The door was locked. They were alone. The stranger easily read his thought.
“No use,” said he, calmly. “Messrs. Bigelow, Higginson, & Co. would miss me if any thing happened. Besides, I may as well tell you that I am armed.”
The stranger rose up and faced Potts, while, from behind his dark spectacles, his eyes seemed to glow like fire. Potts retreated with a curse.
“Messrs. Bigelow, Higginson, & Co. instructed me to say that if I am not back with the money by to-morrow night, they will at once begin action, and have your son arrested. They will also inform Smithers & Co., to whom they say you are indebted for over £600,000. So that Smithers & Co. will at once come down upon you for payment.”
“Do Smithers & Co. know any thing about this?” asked Potts, in a voice of intense anxiety.
“They do business with you the same as ever, do they not?”
“Yes.”
“How do you suppose they can know it?”
“They would never believe it”
“They would believe any statement made by Messrs. Bigelow, Higginson, & Co. My seniors have been on your track for a long time, and have come into connection with various parties. One man who is an Italian they consider important. They authorize me to state to you that this man can also prove the forgeries.”
“Who?” grasped Potts.
“His name is Cigole.”
“Cigole!”
“Yes.”
“D—- him!”
“You may damn him, but that won’t silence him,” remarked the other, mildly.
“Well, what are you going to do?” growled Potts.
“Present you the offer of Messrs. Bigelow, Higginson, & Co.,” said the other, with calm pertinacity. “Upon it depend your fortune and your son’s life.”
“How long are you going to wait?”
“Till evening. I leave to-night. Perhaps you would like to think this over. I’ll give you till three o’clock. If you decide to accept, all well; if not, I go back.”
The stranger rose, and Potts unlocked the door for him.
After he left Potts sat down, buried in his own reflections. In about an hour Clark came in.
“Well, Johnnie!” said he, “what’s up? You look down—any trouble?”
At this Potts told Clark the story of the recent interview. Clark looked grave, and shook his head several times.
“Bad! bad! bad!” said he, slowly, when Potts had ended. “You’re in a tight place, lad, and I don’t see what you’ve got to do but to knock under.”
A long silence followed.
“When did that chap say he would leave?”
“To-night.”
Another silence.
“I suppose,” said Clark, “we can find out how he goes?”
“I suppose so,” returned Potts, gloomily.
“Somebody might go with him or follow him,” said Clark, darkly.
Potts looked at him. The two exchanged glances of intelligence.
“You see, you pay your money, and get your papers back. It would be foolish to let this man get away with so much money. One hundred and two thousand five hundred isn’t to be picked up every day. Let us pick it up this time, or try to. I can drop down to the inn this evening, and see the cut of the man. I don’t like what he said about me. I call it backbiting.”
“You take a proper view of the matter,” said Potts. “He’s dangerous. He’ll be down on you next. What I don’t like about him is his cold-bloodedness.”
“It does come hard.”
“Well, we’ll arrange it that way, shall we?”
“Yes, you pay over, and get your documents, and I’ll try my hand at getting the money back. I’ve done harder things than that in my time and so have you—hey, lad!”
“I remember a few.”
“I wonder if this man knows any of them.”
“No,” said Potts, confidently. “He would have said something.”
“Don’t be too sure. The fact is, I’ve been troubled ever since that girl came out so strong on us. What are you going to do with her?”
“Don’t know,” growled Potts. “Keep her still somehow.”
“Give her to me.”
“What’ll you do with her?” asked Potts, in surprise.
“Take her as my wife,” said Clark, with a grin. “I think I’ll follow your example and set up housekeeping. The girl’s plucky; and I’d like to take her down.”
“We’ll do it; and the sooner the better. You don’t want a minister, do you?”
“Well, I think I’ll have it done up ship-shape, marriage in high life; papers all full of it; lovely appearance of the bride—ha, ha, ha! I’ll save you all further trouble about her—a husband is better than a father in such a case. If that Italian comes round it’ll be his last round.”
Some further conversation followed, in which Clark kept making perpetual references to his bride. The idea had taken hold of his mind completely.
At one o’clock Potts went to the inn, where he found the agent. He handed over the money in silence. The agent gave him the documents. Potts looked at them all carefully.
Then he departed.