“Don't think the worse of yourself for that, Cave. The faculty to read bad men at sight argues too much familiarity with badness. I like to hear a fellow say, 'I never so much as suspected it.' Is this, man's name a secret?”
“No. Nothing of the kind. I don't suppose you ever met him, but he is well known in the service,—better perhaps in India than at home,—he served on Rolffe's staff in Bengal. His name is Sewell.”
“What! Dudley Sewell?”
“Yes; that's his name. Do you know him?”
“Do I know him!” muttered the old man, as he bent down and supported his head upon his hand.
“And do I wrong him in thinking him a dangerous fellow?” asked Cave. But Fossbrooke made no answer; indeed, he never heard the question, so absorbed was he in his own thoughts.
“What do you know of him?” asked Cave, in a louder voice.
“Everything,—everything! I know all that he has done, and scores of things he would have done if he could. By what ill-luck was it that Trafiford came to know this man?”
“They met at the Cape, and Trafford went to visit him when they came over to Ireland. I suspect—I do not know it—but I suspect that there was some flirtation in the case. She is extremely pretty, and a coquette.”
“I declare,” said Fossbrooke, as he arose and paced the room, totally unattentive to all the other said,—“I declare I begin sometimes to think that the only real activity in life is on the part of the scoundrels. Half the honest people in the world pass their lives in forming good intentions, while the rogues go straight at their work and do it. Do you think, Cave, that Trafford would tell me frankly what has passed between this man and himself?”