As for Alfred, he tried to take his share in what had such interest for the others. He made careful notes of the points assigned to him for investigation; he learned names and addresses, and references to no end; he labored hard to imbue himself with the zeal of the others, but it would not do. All his thoughts, hopes, and wishes had another direction, and he longed impatiently for an opportunity to make his escape from them, and set out for Italy and discover Clara. His only clew to her was through Stocmar; but that gentleman was abroad, and not expected for some days in London. Little did the doctor or Quackinboss suspect that Alfred's first call on every morning was at the private entrance of the Regent's Theatre, and his daily question as invariably the same demand, “When do you expect Mr. Stocmar in town?”
Poor fellow! he was only bored by that tiresome search, and hated every man, woman, and child concerned in the dismal history; and yet no other subject was ever discussed, no other theme brought up amongst them. In vain Alfred tried to turn the conversation upon questions of public interest; by some curious sympathy they would not be drawn away into that all-absorbing vortex, and, start from what point they might, they were certain to arrive at last at the High Court of Jersey.
It was on one evening, as they sat together around the fire, that, by dint of great perseverance and consummate skill, Alfred had drawn them away to talk of India and the war there. Anecdotes of personal heroism succeeded, and for every achievement of our gallant fellows at Lucknow, Quackinboss steadily quoted some not less daring exploit of the Mexican war. Thus discussing courage, they came at last to the nice question,—of its characteristics in different nations, and even in individuals.
“In cool daring, in confronting peril with perfect collectedness, and such a degree of self-possession as confers every possible chance of escape on its possessor, a woman is superior to us all,” said the doctor, who for some time had been silently reflecting. “One case particularly presents itself to my mind,” resumed he. “It was connected with that memorable trial at Jersey.”
Alfred groaned heavily, and pushed back his chair from the group.
“The case was this,” continued the old man: “while the police were eagerly intent on tracing out all who were implicated in the murder, suspicion being rife on every hand, every letter that passed between the supposed confederates was opened and read, and a strict watch set over any who were believed likely to convey messages from one to the other.
“On the evening of the inquest—it was about an hour after dark—the window of an upper room was gently opened, and a woman's voice called out to a countryman below, 'Will you earn half a crown, my good man, and take this note to Dr. Layton's, in the town?' He agreed at once, and the letter and the bribe were speedily thrown into his hat. Little did the writer suspect it was a policeman in disguise she had charged with her commission! The fellow hastened off with his prize to the magistrate, who, having read the note, resealed it, and forwarded it to me. Here it is. I have shown it to so many that its condition is become very frail, but it is still readable. It was very brief, and ran thus:—
“Dear Friend,—My misery will plead for me if I thus address you. I have a favor to ask, and my broken heart tells me you will not refuse me. I want you to cut me off a lock of my darling's hair. Take it from the left temple, where it is longest, and bring it to-morrow to his forlorn widow,
“'Louisa Hawke.'
“From the moment they read that note, the magistrates felt it an outrage to suspect her. I do not myself mean to implicate her in the great guilt,—far from it; but here was a bid for sympathy, and put forward in all the coolness of a deliberate plan; for the policeman himself told me, years after, that she saw him at Dover, and gave him a sovereign, saying jocularly, 'I think you look better when dressed as a countryman.' Now, I call this consummate calculation.”