Foul Play - Dion Boucicault (the best books to read txt) 📗

his father, and Mr. Undercliff, an expert, and to sift the whole matter.

Not knowing exactly where to begin, she thought she would, after all, wait a day or two to give Arthur time to recover himself, and decide calmly whether he would co-operate with her or not.

In this trying interval, she set up a diary—for the first time in her life; for she was no egotist. And she noted down what we have just related, only in a very condensed form, and wrote at the margin: Mysterious.

Arthur never came near her for two whole days. This looked grave. On the third day she said to General Rolleston:

“Papa, you will help me in the good cause—will you not?”

He replied that he would do what he could, but feared that would be little.

“Will you take me down to Elmtrees, this morning?”

“With all my heart.”

He took her down to Elmtrees. On the way she said: “Papa, you must let me get a word with Mr. Wardlaw alone.”

“Oh, certainly. But, of course, you will not say a word to hurt his feelings.”

“Oh, papa!”

“Excuse me. But, when a person of your age is absorbed with one idea, she sometimes forgets that other people have any feelings at all.”

Helen kissed him meekly, and said that was too true; and she would be upon her guard.

To General Rolleston’s surprise, his daughter no sooner saw old Wardlaw than she went—or seemed to go—into high spirits, and was infinitely agreeable.

But at last she got him all to herself, and then she turned suddenly grave, and said:

“Mr. Wardlaw, I want to ask you a question. It is something about Robert Penfold.”

Wardlaw shook his head. “That is a painful subject, my dear. But what do you wish to know about that unhappy young man?”

“Can you tell me the name of the counsel who defended him at the trial?”

“No, indeed, I cannot.”

“But perhaps you can tell me where I could learn that.”

“His father is in our office still; no doubt he could tell you.”

Now, for obvious reasons, Helen did not like to go to the office; so she asked faintly if there was nobody else who could tell her.

“I suppose the solicitor could.”

“But I don’t know who was the solicitor,” said Helen, with a sigh.

“Hum!” said the merchant. “Try the bill-broker. I’ll give you his address;” and he wrote it down for her.

Helen did not like to be too importunate, and she could not bear to let Wardlaw senior know she loved anybody better than his son; and yet some explanation was necessary. So she told him, as calmly as she could, that her father and herself were both well acquainted with Robert Penfold, and knew many things to his credit.

“I am glad to hear that,” said Wardlaw; “and I can believe it. He bore an excellent character here, till, in an evil hour, a strong temptation came, and he fell.”

“What! You think he was guilty?”

“I do. Arthur, I believe, has his doubts still. But he is naturally prejudiced in his friend’s favor. And, besides, he was not at the trial; I was.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wardlaw,” said Helen, coldly; and within five minutes she was on her way home.

“Arthur prejudiced in Robert Penfold’s favor!” That puzzled her extremely.

She put down the whole conversation while her memory was fresh. She added this comment: “What darkness I am groping in!”

Next day she went to the bill-broker, and told him Mr. Wardlaw senior had referred her to him for certain information.

Wardlaw’s name was evidently a passport. Mr. Adams said obsequiously, “Anything in the world I can do, madam.”

“It is about Mr. Robert Penfold. I wish to know the name of the counsel he had at his trial.”

“Robert Penfold! What, the forger?”

“He was accused of that crime,” said Helen, turning red.

“Accused, madam! He was convicted. I ought to know; for it was my partner he tried the game on. But I was too sharp for him. I had him arrested before he had time to melt the notes; indicted him, and sent him across the herring pond, in spite of his parson’s coat, the rascal!”

Helen drew back as if a serpent had stung her.

“It was you who had him transported!” cried she, turning her eyes on him with horror.

“Of course it was me,” said Mr. Adams, firing up; “and I did the country good service. I look upon a forger as worse than a murderer. What is the matter? You are ill.”

The poor girl was half fainting at the sight of the man who had destroyed her Robert, and owned it.

“No, no,” she cried, hastily; “let me get away—let me get away from here-you cruel, cruel man!”

She tottered to the door, and got to her carriage, she scarcely knew how, without the information she went for.

The bill-broker was no fool; he saw now how the land lay; he followed her down the stairs, and tried to stammer excuses.

“Charing Cross Hotel,” said she faintly, and laid her face against the cushion to avoid the sight of him.

When she got home, she cried bitterly at her feminine weakness and her incapacity; and she entered this pitiable failure in her journal with a severity our male readers will hardly, we think, be disposed to imitate; and she added, by way of comment: “Is this how I carry out my poor Robert’s precept: Be obstinate as a man; be supple as a woman?”

That night she consulted her father on this difficulty, so slight to any but an inexperienced girl. He told her there must be a report of the trial in the newspapers, and the report would probably mention the counsel; she had better consult a file.

Then the thing was where to find a file. After one or two failures, the British Museum was suggested. She went thither, and could not get in to read without certain formalities. While these were being complied with, she was at a standstill.

That same evening came a line from Arthur Wardlaw:

“DEAREST HELEN— I hear from Mr. Adams that you desire to know the name of the counsel who defended Robert Penfold. It was Mr. Tollemache. He has chambers in Lincoln’s Inn.

“Ever devotedly yours,

“ARTHUR WARDLAW.”

 

Helen was touched with this letter, and put it away indorsed with a few words of gratitude and esteem; and copied it into her diary, and remarked: “This is one more warning not to judge hastily. Arthur’s agitation was probably only great emotion at the sudden mention of one whose innocence he believes, and whose sad fate distresses him.” She wrote back and thanked him sweetly, and in terms that encouraged a visit. Next day she went to Mr. Tollemache. A seedy man followed her at a distance. Mr. Tollemache was not at his chambers, nor expected till four o’clock. He was in court. She left her card, and wrote on it in pencil that she would call at four.

She went at ten minutes after four. Mr. Tollemache declined, through his clerk, to see her if she was a client; he could only be approached by her solicitor. She felt inclined to go away and cry; but this time she remembered she was to be obstinate as a man and supple as a woman. She wrote on a card: “I am not a client of Mr. Tollemache, but a lady deeply interested in obtaining some information, which Mr. Tollemache can with perfect propriety give me. I trust to his courtesy as a gentleman not to refuse me a short interview.”

“Admit the lady,” said a sharp little voice.

She was ushered in, and found Mr. Tollemache standing before the fire.

“Now, madam, what can I do for you?”

“Some years ago you defended Mr. Robert Penfold; he was accused of forgery.”

“Oh, was he? I think I remember something about it. A banker’s clerk—wasn’t he?”

“Oh, no, sir. A clergyman.”

“A clergyman? I remember it perfectly. He was convicted.”

“Do you think he was guilty, sir?”

“There was a strong case against him.”

“I wish to sift that case.”

“Indeed. And you want to go through the papers.”

“What papers, sir?”

“The brief for the defense.”

“Yes,” said Helen, boldly, “would you trust me with that, sir? Oh, if you knew how deeply I am interested!” The tears were in her lovely eyes.

“The brief has gone back to the solicitor, of course. I dare say he will let you read it upon a proper representation.”

“Thank you, sir. Will you tell me who is the solicitor, and where he lives?”

“Oh, I can’t remember who was the solicitor. That is the very first thing you ought to have ascertained. It was no use coming to me.”

“Forgive me for troubling you, sir,” said Helen, with a deep sigh.

“Not at all, madam; I am only sorry I cannot be of more service. But do let me advise you to employ your solicitor to make these preliminary inquiries. Happy to consult with him, and re-open the matter should he discover any fresh evidence.” He bowed her out, and sat down to a brief while she was yet in sight.

She turned away heart-sick. The advice she had received was good; but she shrank from baring her heart to her father’s solicitor.

She sat disconsolate awhile, then ordered another cab, and drove to Wardlaw’s office. It was late, and Arthur was gone home; so, indeed, was everybody, except one young subordinate, who was putting up the shutters. “Sir,” said she, “can you tell me where old Mr. Penfold lives?”

“Somewhere in the subbubs, miss.”

“Yes, sir; but where?”

“I think it is out Pimlico way.”

“Could you not give me the street? I would beg you to accept a present if you could.”

This sharpened the young gentleman’s wits; he went in and groped here and there till he found the address, and gave it her: No. 3, Fairfield Cottages, Primrose Lane, Pimlico. She gave him a sovereign, to his infinite surprise and delight, and told the cabman to drive to the hotel.

The next moment the man who had followed her was chatting familiarly with the subordinate, and helping him to put up the shutters.

“I say, Dick,” said the youngster, “Penfolds is up in the market; a duchess was here just now, and gave me a soy, to tell her where he lived. Wait a moment till I spit on it for luck.”

The agent, however, did not wait to witness that interesting ceremony. He went back to his hansom round the corner, and drove at once to Arthur Wardlaw’s house with the information.

Helen noted down Michael Penfold’s address in her diary, and would have gone to him that evening, but she was to dine tete-a-tete with her father.

Next day she went down to 3 Fairfield Cottages at half past four. On the way her heart palpitated, for this was a very important interview. Here at least she might hope to find some clew, by following out which she would sooner or later establish Robert’s innocence. But then came a fearful thought: “Why had not his father done this already, if it was possible to do it? His father must love him. His father must have heard his own story, and tested it in every way. Yet his father remained the servant of a firm, the senior partner of which had told her to her face Robert was guilty.”

It was a strange and terrible enigma. Yet she clung to the belief that some new light would come to her from Michael Penfold. Then came. bashful fears. “How should she account to Mr. Penfold for the interest she took in his own son, she who was affianced to Mr. Penfold’s