“It all seems to be like a dream,” murmured the earl, as he broke the seal of another. This came from Harrogate, and its tone was both melancholy and despairing. Montini was dangerously ill—he was not able to follow his avocation, and his unhappy wife implored her father to hold out a helping hand and send them money without delay, as they were reduced to the greatest possible extremity, and positively wanted the common necessaries of life.
Lord Ethalwood dashed the letter down on the table, smote his forehead with one hand, and uttered an expression indicative of the most poignant agony.
“I never thought it would come to this,” he muttered, rising from his seat and pacing the apartment restlessly. “Poor girl, she must indeed have changed to beg for assistance! Oh, what would I give now to have her here by my side, in—in the winter of my life—in my old age!”
He fell into his chair and burst out into a passionate flood of tears.
Retributive justice had overtaken the proud, uncompromising, relentless nobleman, who cried like a child.
* * * * *
Mr. Wrench wended his way along till he reached the well-known house of entertainment for man and beast, kept by the equally well-known Brickett. The detective was not a man to make himself common by mixing up with any knot of strangers—not unless he could make it answer his purpose to do so—he therefore requested to be shown into a private room, and, after partaking of some refreshment, he proceeded to glance at the memoranda he jotted down in his notebook.
“Humph,” he murmured. “The young couple seem to have visited a good many towns; I suppose things were running cross with them. It’s a queer business, take it altogether, and the earl is a starchy sort of customer, as unforgiving as the devil, and as proud as a peacock. Well, I wouldn’t change places with him for all his wealth and title. He’s what I call a stunner. No two ways about him. But ‘he’s down among the dead men’ this time, it would appear—is what our Transatlantic friends would call ‘cornered.’ I must find out all about his daughter for him, that’s certain—that is, if it be possible. The question is, how it is to be accomplished.”
Not being able to answer this question with anything like satisfaction to himself, Mr. Wrench lighted a cigar, rang the bell, and ordered some brandy cold.
He had not indulged in many puffs at the “fragrant weed” before Brickett made his appearance.