“And pray, Mr. Shearman, what was the name of the ‘Britisher,’ as you are pleased to call him?”
“His name?” cried the detective, “oh, Wagstaff. Doctor Wagstaff he called himself.”
Bourne’s countenance became of an ashen hue.
Mr. Shearman relighted his cigar, which had gone out during the recital, and puffed away vigorously.
“I am burning him all on one side, doctor. Gone out, and a relighted weed is always a bit obstinate.”
“Take another. You won’t do much good with that.”
“I will take another.”
Mr. Shearman threw the half-smoked cigar behind the fire, and then re-commenced his narrative.
“Yes,” he said, “the Britisher’s name was Wagstaff. He was an artful cuss as ever stepped in shoe leather, so I’ve been told. He planned and carried out the elopement, the gal of course assisted him, the two were married and settled in Texas. After the lapse of a short time Clara Leaven wrote to her father to beg his forgiveness. He forwarded her some money, but informed her that he would not consent to receive her husband upon any conditions whatever. He was firm and staunch in that resolution, and his sons could not turn him. So there was no help for it. The young and loving pair had to shift for themselves, but in justice to the planter it must be said that he sent his daughter several sums of money, stating at the same time that nothing would please him better than to have her back, but it must be without her husband. Wall, you see, doctor, the gal clung to her partner even as the ivy clings to the ruined wall. She would not return home, although it was said that she had by no means a bed of roses in Texas. To make use of a common phrase, she found out in the due course of time that she had outlived his liking, but she never told anybody this but one person.”
“And who might that be?” inquired Bourne.