Ill-luck was, indeed, pursuing him. Every now and then a ray of hope-would pierce the darkness of his misery, only to be again dimmed by some terrible difficulty, each of which seemed more insurmountable than the last.
The unfortunate young man was coming to the end of his endurance, and for one brief moment, as he reeled out of Davies’ shop, the idea crossed his mind of ending all this misery, once for all, by throwing himself underneath the first omnibus that passed; but it was only for a brief moment, the next he had realised that his death now, at this point, would mean hopeless, irretrievable ruin to his friends and comrades—all the more so as they would be unaware of their danger, completely ignorant, as they were, of the loss of the compromising papers. It was still on his coolness, his pluck, and perseverance that hung the lives of his comrades, and he determined to make one more effort to save them. “The last,” he thought hopefully.
His plans now would have to be more complicated, and Volenski gathered all his faculties together for the laying of these plans. He had almost mechanically walked out of the Jew’s shop, and, still unconsciously, was turning his footsteps towards Curzon Street. One thing was certain, he must see Mr. James Hudson—any pretext would serve for that—he would think of one later on. What he must think out at once was, what he should say to Mr. James Hudson when he did see him. He knew him well by reputation. He was a man of boundless wealth and boundless eccentricities, generous to a fault, and had been a great favourite with the ladies in Prince Albert’s days. No doubt he was a gentleman, and if… Yes, that was it. The whole interview flashed before his fevered brain as if he saw it on a stage.
Characters: The courteous, benevolent old gentleman, a sort of modern Bayard—Mr. James Hudson. The young man with a past that involved a lady’s honour—himself. Scene: A drawing-room in Curzon Street, Mayfair.
The young man with a past: “Sir, you hold in your hands the honour of a lady. Will you give me back the letter?”
Courteous old gentleman: “The letter, sir, what letter?”
The Y.M.W.P.: “It lies concealed in yon candlestick that adorns your mantelpiece. Sir, years ago we were foolish; we sinned, she and I. Having no means of approaching each other, we used the graceful toys as love’s letter-box. One of those letters—hers—was forgotten, there—she is now married—I am married—we are all married, but you, sir, hold the candlesticks—you hold her fate! Will you give me back the letter?”
Courteous old gentleman: “Sir, pray take it—it is yours!” Tableau.
There is no doubt that, at this stage, poor Volenski’s dreams had become the wanderings almost of a lunatic; his agitated manner, his wild, excited gestures attracted the attention of the passers-by.
He made a violent effort at self-control, and having arrived at No. 108, Curzon Street, rang the bell, and asked the footman who opened the door whether Mr. James Hudson was at home.