Page:Once a Week Jun to Dec 1864.pdf/427

 412 never pull a client out of any mess whatever, if I am kept in the dark.”

“It is I who am kept in the dark,” said Mr. Carlton. “I am telling you the truth when I say that the letter never was in my safe at all, and that its production is to me utterly incomprehensible.”

“But it was in your safe,” persisted Lawyer Billiter. “If you did not know of it, that’s another matter: it was certainly there; your wife, Lady Laura, got it out of it.”

“Lady Laura!”

“The tale is this,” said the lawyer, speaking without any reserve, for he could not divest himself of the idea that Mr. Carlton did know the facts. “Her ladyship has had some jealous feeling upon her lately with regard to; but I needn’t go into that. She suspected you of some escapade or other, it seems, and thought she should like to see what you kept in that safe; and she went down one night—only a night or so ago—and got it open, and fished out this letter, and recognised it for the handwriting of her lost sister Clarice. She had no idea of its meaning; she supposed it had got into one of your envelopes by some unaccountable mistake; but she showed it to Lady Jane Chesney, and Lady Jane showed it to the woman Smith. And she, Smith, it is who has done all the mischief.”

Mr. Carlton gazed with open eyes, in which there was now more of speculative reminiscence than of wonder. For the first time it had occurred to him that there was a possibility of his having put up the wrong letter that long past night; that he might have burnt the letter from his father, and kept the dangerous one. A strange sort of pang shot through his heart. Was it his wife, then, who had been the traitor?—his wife whom he had, in his fashion, certainly loved.

“And Lady Laura made the letter public!” he exclaimed, breaking a long pause; and Mr. Billiter could not help remarking the tone of bitter pain in which the words were spoken.

“Not intending to injure you. She had no idea what the letter could mean; and, as I say, thought it had got into your possession by some mistake. She showed it to Lady Jane only because it was the handwriting of her sister Clarice.”

“I never knew it,” he said, in a dreamy tone; “I never knew it.” But whether he meant that he never knew Clarice was her sister, or that he never knew that the letter was amidst his papers, must be left to conjecture. Mr. Billiter resumed.

“Nothing would have been known of the precise manner in which the letter came to light, but for Lady Laura’s self-reproach when she found the letter had led to your arrest. Just after you were taken to-day, Mother Pepperfly was at your house—by what accident I’m sure I don’t know—and Lady Jane Chesney entered while she was there. Lady Laura broke into a storm of self-reproach in her sister’s arms, confessing how she had procured a skeleton key, and picked the lock of your safe, and so found the letter. The fat old woman heard it all, and came forth with it. I met her, and she told me; and it seems the next she met was one of the police, and she told him, and he went straight up to Drone, and imparted it to him: and that’s how it got to the ears of the magistrates. It seems as if the hand of Fate had been at work over the letter,” concluded Lawyer Billiter, somewhat irascibly.

Perhaps the “hand of Fate” had been at work with the letter, though in a different way from what Mr. Billiter meant. He had but spoken in the carelessness of the moment’s vexation. What would he have said, had he known how strangely the letter had been preserved, when Mr. Carlton had all along thought it was destroyed?

Nothing more could be done until the morning, and Mr. Billiter wished his client good night. Some gentlemen—former acquaintances—called to see Mr. Carlton: he was not yet abandoned; but the officials declined to admit any one to his presence, save his lawyer, civilly saying it was not the custom at the lock-up. Mr. Carlton was asked what he would like for supper; but he said he preferred not to take any supper, and requested the use of writing materials. They were supplied him, together with a small table to write upon, and the further use of the lamp, which latter favour would most likely not have been accorded to a prisoner of less account. In fact, the police could not all at once learn to treat Mr. Carlton as a prisoner; and perhaps it might be excused to them, considering the position he had, up to the last twelve hours, held at South Wennock, and that he was as yet only under remand.

There was a youngish man who had rather lately joined the force. His name was Bowler. Mr. Carlton had attended him in an illness since, and been very kind to him, and Bowler was now especially inclined to be deferent and attentive to the prisoner. He entered the room quite late at night, the last thing, to inquire whether the prisoner wanted anything, and saw on the table a letter addressed to the Lady Laura Carlton.

“Did you want it delivered to her ladyship to-night, sir?” asked the man.

“Oh, no,” said Mr. Carlton; “to-morrow