“The thing must be done this wise,” said Lord Culduff. “It must be a 'private and confidential' to the office, and a 'sly and ambiguous' to the public prints. I 'll charge myself with the former; the latter shall be your care, Temple. You are intimate with Flosser, the correspondent of the 'Bell-Weather.' Have him to dinner and be indiscreet. This old Madeira here will explain any amount of expansiveness. Get him to talk of this escape, and let out the secret that it was we who managed it all. Mind, however, that you swear him not to reveal anything. It would be your ruin, you must say, if the affair got wind; but the fact was Lord Culduff saw the Neapolitans were determined not to surrender him, and knowing what an insult it would be to the public feeling of England that an Englishman was held as a prisoner at the galleys, for an act of heroism and gallantry, the only course was to liberate him at any cost and in any way. Flosser will swear secrecy, but hints at this solution as the on dit in certain keen coteries. Such a mode of treating the matter carries more real weight than a sworn affidavit. Men like the problem that they fancy they have unravelled by their own acuteness. And then it muzzles discussion in the House, since even the most blatant Radical sees that it cannot be debated openly; for all Englishmen, as a rule, love compensation, and we can only claim indemnification here on the assumption that we were no parties to the escape. Do you follow me, Temple?”
“I believe I do. I see the drift of it at last.”
“There's no drift, sir. It is a full, palpable, well-delivered blow. We saved Rogers; but we refuse to explain how.”
“And if he turns up one of these days, and refuses to confirm us?”
“Then we denounce him as an impostor; but always, mark you, in the same shadowy way that we allude to our share in his evasion. It must be a sketch in water-colors throughout, Temple,—very faint and very transparent. When I have rough-drafted my despatch you shall see it. Once the original melody is before you, you will see there is nothing to do but invent the variations.”
“My Lady wishes to know, my Lord, if your Lordship will step upstairs to speak to her?” said a servant at this conjuncture.
“Go up, Temple, and see what it is,” whispered Lord Culduff. “If it be about that box at the St. Carlos, you can say our stay here is now most uncertain. If it be a budget question, she must wait till quarter-day.” He smiled maliciously as he spoke, and waved his hand to dismiss him. Within a minute—it seemed scarcely half that time—Lady Culduff entered the room, with an open letter in her hand; her color was high, and her eyes flashing, as she said:—
“Make your mind at ease, my Lord. It is no question of an opera-box, or a milliner's bill, but it is a matter of much importance that I desire, to speak about. Will you do me the favor to read that, and say what answer I shall return to it?”
Lord Culduff took the letter and read it over leisurely, and then, laying it down, said, “Lady Augusta is not a very perspicuous letter-writer, or else she feels her present task too much for her tact, but what she means here is, that you should give M. Pracontal permission to ransack your brother's house for documents, which, if discovered, might deprive him of the title to his estate. The request, at least, has modesty to recommend it.”
“The absurdity is, to my thinking, greater than even the impertinence,” cried Lady Culduff. “She says, that on separating two pages, which by some accident had adhered, of Giacomo Lami's journal,—whoever Giacomo Lami may be,—we—we being Pracontal and herself—have discovered that it was Giacomo's habit to conceal important papers in the walls where he painted, and in all cases where he introduced his daughter's portrait; and that as in the octagon room at Castello there is a picture of her as Flora, it is believed—confidently believed—such documents will be found there as will throw great light on the present claim—”