“I read it very hurriedly. Balfour gave it to me as I landed, and I only ran my eyes over it; let me see it again. Yes, yes,” muttered he, “there is much in what you say; all these smudges and alterations are suspicious. It looks like a draft of a despatch.”
“And so it is. I 'll wager my head on it,—just a draft.”
“I see what you mean. It was a draft abstracted by Sewell, and forwarded under this envelope.”
“Precisely. The Chief Baron, I am told, is a hot, hasty, passionate man, with moments of rash, impetuous action; in one of these he sat down and wrote this, as Italians say, 'per sfogarsi.' Warm-tempered men blow off their extra steam in this wise, and then go on their way like the rest of us. He wrote this, and, having written it, felt he had acquitted a debt he owed his own indignation.”
“It looks amazingly like it; and now I remember in a confused sort of way something about a bet Balfour lost; a hundred—I am not sure it was not two hundred—”
“There, there,” said Fossbrooke, laughing, “I recognize my honorable friend at once. I see the whole, as if it were revealed to me. He grows bolder as he goes on. Formerly his rascalities were what brokers call 'time bargains,' and not to be settled for till the end of the month, but now he only asks a day's immunity.”
“A man must be a consummate scoundrel who would do this.”
“And so he is,—a fellow who stops at nothing. Oh, if the world only knew how many brigands wore diamond shirt-buttons, there would be as much terror in going into a drawing-room as people now feel about a tour in Greece. You will let me have this document for a few hours?”
“To be sure, Fossbrooke. I know well I may rely on your discretion; but what do you mean to do with it?”
“Let the Chief Baron see it, if he's well enough; if not, I 'll show it to Beattie, his doctor, and ask his opinion of it. Dr. Lendrick, Sir William's son, is also here, and he will probably be able to say if my suspicions are well founded.”