Chapter Thirty Nine.
The Call Book.
The General could no longer keep his seat. At the unexpected information communicated by Mr Lawson, he had started up, and commenced pacing the floor in short irregular strides, at intervals exclaiming, “Strange, damme!”
“If I had known this,” he said more continuously—“If I had known this, all might yet have been well. Never got the thousand pounds, you say?”
“Never a penny of it, from me.”
“I’m so glad to hear it—so glad!”
“True, you should be. It’s no doubt so much money saved; that is, if you think it might have been spent foolishly.”
“Nothing of that kind, sir; nothing of the sort!”
“Pardon me, General, I did not mean—”
The lawyer’s apology was interrupted by the re-entrance of his clerk carrying a large volume, on whose covering of vellum were the words “Call Book.”
Mr Lawson took hold of the book, glad to escape from further explanation.
“There it is,” said he, after turning over a number of pages. “Two entries of different dates, both relating to your son. The first on the 4th day of April; the other on the 6th. Shall I read them, General, or will you look at them yourself?”
“Read them to me.”
The solicitor, readjusting his spectacles, read aloud—
“April 4th, half-past 11 a.m.—Called at office, Mr Henry Harding, son of General Harding, of Beechwood Park, county Bucks. Business—to ask if any communication had been received from his father intended for self. Answer—None received.”
“April 6th, half-past 11 a.m.—Called again, Mr Henry Harding. Same question put, same answer given, as on April 4th. Young gentleman said nothing, but went away dissatisfied.”
“Of course, General,” said the lawyer apologetically, “we are obliged to make these remarks in the way of our profession. Are these the only entries, Mr Jennings—I mean that have reference to Mr Henry Harding?”
“There are no others in the book, sir—except one made six months ago, relating to a letter received from Mr Harding’s father. Shall I find it, sir?”
“No, that is not necessary; you can take the book away.”
“And so you never paid my son Henry that thousand pounds?” interrogated the General, after the clerk had gone out.
“Never—not a thousand pence; no money of any kind, as you see by the memoranda. He never asked for any. Of course, if he had done so, I should have been obliged to refuse him until I received your order. A thousand pounds, General, is too large a sum to be handed over to a young man—a minor, as your son then was—simply at his own request.”
“But, Mr Lawson, you astonish me still more. Do you mean to tell me you never received any letter authorising you to give him a cheque for that amount?”
“Never heard of such a letter. Never, until this moment.”
“Damme, this is strange! He may be among the brigands, after all.”
“I should be sorry if it were so.”
“And I should be glad of it.”
“Oh! General?”
“No, Lawson; you don’t understand me. I’d be glad of it for a good reason. It would prove that the boy might not be so bad, after all. I thought he had spent the thousand pounds. Is it possible there can be any truth in this letter from Rome? Damme, I hope it is true—every word of it!”
“But, General; you would not wish it true that your son is a captive in the hands of banditti?”
“Of course I would. Better that than the other. I hope he is. I’d willingly pay the five thousand pounds to think so. How shall we find it out? What’s to be done?”
“What became of the messenger—my professional brother from the dominions of the Pope?”
“Oh, him! He’s gone back, I suppose, to those who sent him—brigands, or whatever they were. I came nigh kicking him out of the house. I should have done so, or else given him in charge to the police, but refrained—solely to avoid creating a scandal. Think, Mr Lawson, what’s to be done. I suppose there’s no immediate danger?”
“I’m not so sure of that,” answered the lawyer reflectingly; “these Italian bandits are cruel ruffians. There is no knowing how far they may go in execution of their threat. Did the man leave no clue by which he could be communicated with—no address?”
“None whatever. He only said I should hear from my son again, as the letter says. My God! they surely don’t mean to carry out the threat it contains?”
“Let us hope not.”
“But what had I better do? Apply to the Foreign Secretary; get him to write to Rome, and make a demand on the Pope’s Government—that is, if the story of my boy’s captivity be true?”
“Certainly, General; of course. But would all that not be too late? When did you get the letter?”
“Eight days ago. You will see by the date, that it has been written more than two weeks.”
“Then I fear that any interference of the Government—either ours or that of Rome—would be too late to anticipate the steps that may have been taken, in the event of their having received your answer—I mean that sent by your son Nigel. There appears to be no alternative but wait till you get another communication from them. That will, at least, give you the means of writing to your son, and forwarding the ransom required. You could proceed with the other matter, all the same. Lay your case before the Government, and see what can be done.”
“I shall set about it this very day,” said the General. “This very day shall I go down to Downing Street. Can you go with me, Mr Lawson?”
“Of course,” replied the solicitor, rising from his desk and putting his spectacles into their case. “I’m at your service, General,” he added, as they walked towards the door; “I hope, after all, we shall not be called upon to have any dealings with brigands.”
“And I hope we shall,” returned the General, striking his Malacca cane upon the pavement; “better my boy be a captive of brigands than the plotter of a deception, such as I have been reproaching him with. May God forgive me, but I’d rather see his ears in the next letter sent me, than believe him capable of that.”
To this fervent speech from a father’s heart the solicitor made no answer; and the two walked side by side in silence.