since the day on which the one great blow had descended upon him, Lygon hastened to throw together a few private papers and other matters, and to secure them, and was then about to go out, when Hawkesley stopped him.
“What do you propose to do, Arthur?”
“What is there to do but one thing? Let us make the best of our way to Versailles, learn for ourselves what particulars we can, and if these police cannot hit upon the track of the miscreant, we may be more fortunate.”
“You are for hunting him down?”
“Can you ask that? Do you think that I will rest until I have seen him brought out on the scaffold?”
“Sit down, and listen to me.”
“Let us talk, if it must be so, as we go along. Come.”
“No. I have an answer to give in Paris, and it must be given after you have heard me. Ten minutes will suffice, and they will not be thrown away.”
“You speak in a tone that leaves me no choice,” said Lygon, laying his watch on the table before him.
“It is proposed to me by the police that we should let this man escape altogether,” said Hawkesley, quietly.
Lygon uttered a deep oath.
“He is their confederate, but we could hardly have expected this,” he said, furiously. “But they shall not save him. Come, let us get upon his traces. I have had some experience in such matters. If we once run him down, all the confederates in the world shall not save him.”
“It is not for his own sake that they wish to spare him.”
“For whose then, in the name of—”
“For yours.”
“Mine!”
“I have asked you for ten minutes, Arthur, and you will do well to hear me out.”
“For my sake!” repeated Lygon, angrily.
“It is my duty to tell you what has been said to me. Then you will act as you may think fit.”
Arthur Lygon sat down opposite to Hawkesley, and fixed a steady gaze upon his brother-in-law.
“Finish, Charles. You are no trifler, but every moment we waste is a shame and a disgrace to Urquhart’s brothers.”
“There are duties to the living as well as to the dead, Arthur. Listen to me. Urquhart has died a sacrifice for a reputation that should be dearer to us than any memory.”
“I do not understand you.”
“It is all before me now, and you must not doubt for a moment that I am speaking the entire truth. The villain who has slain Urquhart had obtained possession of letters which Robert believed to be conclusive evidence against your wife, Arthur. She, poor wretch, terrified by his threats to use them, came to France to rescue them from him, in order to throw them before you, and beg you to judge and save her.”
Lygon waved his hand impatiently, but made no reply.
“This is the truth, as God shall judge me, Lygon!”
“You desire to believe it, and you do,” replied Lygon, quickly, “and that is all that you have a right to say. I do not believe it—”
“Nor desire to believe it?” asked Hawkesley, sternly.
“Do I desire to believe a lie? Did that dead man give credit to such a tale? We will not talk of this any more,” said Arthur, becoming pale with emotion which he struggled to hide.
“We will talk of it, Lygon, while I have anything to say to you—or we never speak again. I have not shown myself so worthless a friend, I think, as to be so cast off, or to be denied what you would grant to a stranger. The happiness of Laura, of yourself, and of your children, is as dear to me as my own, and I will not be silenced while I believe that I can do you service by speaking. You must answer me, too. If I can prove to you beyond a shadow of doubt that what I have told you is true, what will you do?”
“Let us hunt down this murderer, and then we may speak of other things.”
“Other things, Arthur Lygon! Are those words for the happiness of your own life and Laura’s? Will you answer me now? If I have truly told you what was Laura’s errand to France, will you forbid her to accomplish it?”
“Laura and I meet no more in this world. When Urquhart’s death has been avenged, I will leave the rest to your care.”
“May God deal to you more justice than you deal to the mother of your children!”
“You do not understand me, Hawkesley,” was Lygon’s calm reply. “Be content to believe that. Have you more to say?”
“But that I hope to save you and Laura yet; you and I should say no more to one another from this minute. But I will not be defeated by your resolution, until I have done my work. Do you hear me say that, Arthur Lygon?”
“Do you believe,” replied Lygon, kindly, “that I ever doubted your affection for us? But you can serve no good purpose by endeavouring to make me share the deception that has been practised on you. By Heaven, Charles,” he exclaimed, passionately, “if the past could be done away, and I could be once more what I was on that accursed day when I went to what I had left a happy home, and found the abandoned—” the words rose chokingly in his throat, and it was with tearful eyes, and yet a vehement utterance, that after a pause he finished the sentence. “If the past could be undone, as Heaven shall judge me, I could go a pauper and a cripple towards my grave, and go in gladness that I had known the love of a pure and true woman. A curse has come upon me, and I have not deserved it.”
Hawkesley looked at him in silence, while Arthur dashed away the tears which he did not attempt to hide, and made an effort to recover his self-possession. Then the former said—
“I ask you, Arthur, for the sake of our relationship—for the sake of our friendship—for the sake of your children, one thing. You have no right to refuse it me?”
“What do you ask?”
“That you will see these letters.”
