“I remember,” broke in Sewell, hastily, for he saw in the flush of the other's cheek how the difficulty of what he had to say was already giving him a most painful emotion. “You stipulated something about keeping my wife apart from that young lady. You expressed certain fears about contamination—”
“Oh, sir, you wrong me deeply,” said the old man, with broken utterance.
“I'd be happy to think I had misunderstood you,” said Sewell, still pursuing his advantage. “Of course, it was very painful to me at the time. My wife, too, felt it bitterly.”
Fossbrooke started at this as if stung, and his brow darkened and his eyes flashed as he said: “Enough of this, sir. It is not the first time I have been calumniated in the same quarter. Let us talk of something else. You hold in your hand certain letters of Major Trafford,—Lionel Trafford,—and you make them the ground of a threat against him. Is it not so?”
“I declare, Sir Brook, the interest you take in what relates to my wife somewhat passes the bounds of delicacy.”
“I know what you mean. I know the advantage you would take of me, and which you took awhile ago; but I will not suffer it. I want these letters,—what's their price?”
“They are in the hands of my solicitors, Kane & Kincaid; and I think it very unlikely they will stay the proceedings they have taken on them by any demand of yours.”
“I want them, and must have them.”
Sewell shrugged his shoulders, and made a gesture to imply that he had already given him his answer.
“And what suit would you pretend—But why do I ask you? What is it to me by what schemes you prosecute your plans? Look here, sir; I was once on a time possessed of a document which would have subjected you to the fate of a felon; it was the forgery of my name—”