Uxmoor's eye flashed. He had always suspected Severne of being his rival and a main cause of his defeat. “An impostor?” said he: “that is rather a strong word. Certainly I never heard a gentleman tell such a falsehood as he volunteered about—what's the fellow's name?—a detective.”
“Oh, Poikilus. That is nothing. That was one of his white lies. He is a villain all round, and a forger by way of climax.”
“A forger! What, a criminal?”
“Rather! Here are his drafts. The drawer and acceptor do not exist. The whole thing was written by Edward Severne, whose indorsement figures on the bill. He got me to cash these bills. I deposit them with you, and I ask you for a warrant to commit him—if he should come this way.”
“Is that likely?”
“Not at all; it is a hundred to one he never shows his nose again in Barfordshire. When he was found out, he bolted, and left his very clothes in my house. I packed them off to the 'Swan' at Taddington. He has never been heard of since; and I have warned him, by advertisement, that he will be arrested if ever he sets foot in Barfordshire.”
“Well, then?”
“Well, then, I am not going to throw away a chance. The beggar had the impudence to spoon on my sister Zoe. That was my fault, not hers. He was an old college acquaintance, and I gave him opportunities—I deserve to be horsewhipped. However, I am not going to commit the same blunder twice. My sister is in your neighborhood for a few days.”
“Ah!”
“And perhaps you will be good enough to keep your eye on her.”