“The new cottages are all right, surely?” cried St. Quentin.
“Oh, yes, they are certain to be all right,” Hugh said; “it isn’t that. There was a man brought into the Blue-friars the other day, frightfully hurt internally, and we thought it was all up with him, or would be soon, at least. Well, after a bit I was with him alone, and saw he was in great distress of mind, to add to his other troubles. I got presently at what was wrong. He gathered that we thought him in a very bad way, and had it on his mind that he had once wronged a man frightfully. I got the poor chap to make his confession to me, and took it down, and he signed it. His name is Duncombe.”
The colour rushed into St. Quentin’s pale face.
“Go on!” he said, in a voice of strained calm.
“His confession was this. He was riding your horse, MacIvor, in a race against a certain Sir Algernon Bridge and another man—I forget his name—it didn’t signify. Duncombe was in trouble of some kind and wanted money over and above the pay you promised him for riding. A letter from you, written just before the race, promised him an extra fifty if he won it. He went and injured in some way Sir Algernon’s horse, Doll, the night before, but being in a funk he overdid the business, and the horse bowled over sooner than he meant it to. There were enquiries, and Sir Algernon’s jockey accused Duncombe. In his fright he declared—forgive me, please—that he acted by your orders, producing the letter you had written him to prove his words. He was awfully ashamed of that part of the business, for of course he knew all along you only meant fair play. But he said he had an old mother who depended on him, and it wouldn’t mean prison for a gentleman. I don’t believe he understood it meant something infinitely worse. Sir Algernon Bridge took the letter from him and bribed him to say nothing more about it. He was only too glad to hold his tongue at first, for Sir Algernon assured him that he was your friend, and intended to suppress the letter for your sake, but later on he seems to have had qualms at having acted unfairly by you. He said he never meant to do you a wrong, for you had been extremely kind to him. He seems to have guessed later that Sir Algernon meant no good to you; for his old mother lives at Loam, and comes to Sydney’s work-parties. They kept him up to some knowledge of your doings.... He asked me to give you his confession, and begged that you would make what use of it you liked, and not consider him.”
St. Quentin took the paper from Hugh’s hand and read it slowly. What would he not have given for it long ago? Now he was dying, and nothing seemed to matter very much.
“May I tell the poor chap you forgive him?” Hugh said.
“Is he still alive?” asked St. Quentin in surprise.
“Yes, and will live, I think. It’s a most extraordinary case; quite unique in the annals of the hospital, and we are awfully proud of the operation which has saved him. His injury had till now been considered hopeless, but Sir Anthony is a genius, and he’s pulled him through, we hope. I am going down the village to tell Lorry of the case, if you don’t want me any longer. He is so interested in all fresh developments of science.”