"Ah, it is interesting, is it not? It was from this same obliging workman that I learnt many particulars of my brother's domestic affairs, of which I was ignorant, having been so long separated from him."
And then Gilbert Bidaud, with something more than a suspicion that he had his fingers on the pulse of the mystery which was perplexing him, recapitulated, as nearly as he could recall them, all the particulars of the conversation between Basil and himself on this occasion of their first meeting, with not one of which was Chaytor familiar. Chaytor, continuing to drink, listened contemptuously to this "small talk," as he termed it, and wanted to know why Gilbert Bidaud bored him with such stuff; but the old man continued, and finally wound up with an invented account of a meeting with Basil on the plantation, to which Chaytor, ignorant of what was true and what was false, willingly subscribed, and thus materially assisted in the deception that was being practised upon him. At length Gilbert Bidaud rose with the intention of taking his leave.
"And how goes matters," he asked, "with you and my niece? Does the course of true love still run smooth?"
"Never you mind," retorted Chaytor, "whether it does or doesn't. It isn't your affair."
"Perhaps not. You are not in a gracious humour, friend Basil. We will speak of it another time. Do not forget that I am Annette's guardian."
"Oh, no, I'll not forget. When she and I settle things I shall want some information from you."
"About----?" asked Gilbert, and paused.
"About her fortune. You see, up till now, my friend, you have had it all your own way."
"True, true. We will speak of it. Oh, yes, we will speak of it," adding inly, "and of other things as well, my mysterious friend."
The remaining portion of that day Gilbert Bidaud devoted himself to thought, the subject being the man who called himself Basil Whittingham. This, with him, was a distinct process; he had cultivated the art of marshalling facts and evidence, of weighing their relative value and their direct and indirect bearing upon the problem he was endeavouring to solve, and of imparting into it all the arguments which would naturally suggest themselves to an intellect so subtle and astute as his own. "Outside," thought Gilbert, "he is Basil, the man I knew; inside he is not Basil, the man I knew. The outside of a man may change, but it is against nature that his character should be twisted inside out--that it should turn from white to black, from black to white. In my estimate of Basil on my brother's plantation I was not mistaken; and that being so, this man and that man are not the same inwardly. How stands my niece in regard to him? She was all joy when he first joined us; it was nothing but Basil, Basil, Basil, like the magpie that the old woodcutter gave her. But her joy and gladness have not stood the test of time; my niece has grown sad. I have seen her watch Basil's face with grief in her own; I have seen her listen to his conversation with sadness and surprise in her eyes. She says nothing, she nurses her grief, and is the kind of woman that will sacrifice herself to an idea, to a passion she regards as sacred. Yes, this Basil is not the Basil she knew--and she knew him well and intimately, far better than I. That one was capable of noble deeds--though I hated him I will do him justice; this one is sordid, mean, debased, depraved. Fruit ripens and rots; not so men's hearts. Where there is sweetness it is never wholly lost; some trace of it remains, and so with frankness, generosity, and nobility. Has this Basil shown the least moral indication that he is the man we knew? Not one. All the better for me, perhaps. He will want some information from me respecting Annette's fortune, will he? I may want some information from him. He will dictate to me, will he? Take care, my friend, I may dictate to you."