Wyndham smiles. After all, what a compliment this man has paid him! He dips his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, and brings out a leather card-case, and hands it to Moore. The latter opens it.
There is a slight pause, then Moore gives him back the case in silence.
‘So you are Paul Wyndham?’ says he. His face has changed colour, but still his bull-dog courage sticks to him. ‘Then you ought to be the more ashamed of yourself.’
‘I expect I’ll make you very much ashamed of yourself,’ says Wyndham, ‘and that almost immediately. An abduction has a very unpleasant sound nowadays, and generally means trouble to the principal actor in it. I’d advise you to sit down and let us talk sense. I know all your dealings with this—this young lady, and they scarcely redound to your credit. In fact, I am pretty sure they would lead you into mischief—and six months’ hard labour—if eloquently stated. That is the very least you would get—unless——’
‘Six months! I am going abroad on Thursday next.’
‘Are you? I wouldn’t be too sure, if I were you,’ says Wyndham grimly. ‘It’s as bad a case of persecution as I have ever gone into. And I may as well say at once that, if you persist in your determination to carry off this poor child against her will, I shall call in the village police and expose the whole matter.’
Moore, who has been cowed by Wyndham’s name and the stern air of the barrister, in spite of his show of defiance, falters here, and the result of the long conversation that ensues between the two men leaves all in Wyndham’s hands.
At the end, seeing the game was up, Moore gave in unconditionally. He acknowledged that Ella’s name was not Moore. It was Haynes. She was no relation of his or his wife’s, but undoubtedly her mother had left the girl to their charge when dying, and as she was useful and his wife was fond of her, they kept her with them. Her father was dead. Mrs. Haynes had always been very reticent. He was of opinion that she had once been in better circumstances. Haynes was not respectable—he, Moore, had an idea that his father had cast him off. He was not at all sure that Haynes was his real name. He had, indeed, reasons for thinking it wasn’t, but he had never been able to discover anything; and when the child was left to them, his wife had insisted on calling her Moore. She had gone by that name ever since.
All this information was not given until payment had been demanded and made, and after that there had been a final settlement, by which all the small belongings of the girl were to be delivered up to Wyndham; over this part of the transaction Moore had proved himself specially shrewd. As the game was up, he was determined to see himself really well out of it; and in the end he made so excellent a bargain that Wyndham found himself a good deal out of pocket. The price he paid was certainly a heavy one for two boxes, that might contain anything or nothing, and, for an astute lawyer like Wyndham, bordered on the absurd. Beyond doubt, if he went to law with the fellow, Ella would have got her own, but then there would be the publicity, and—— Any way, he paid it—not so much for the boxes, however, as for the certainty that Moore would go abroad and leave Ella free. It was for that he bought and paid. But in spite of his better sense, that told him if there were anything in the boxes worth having Moore or his wife would have traded on it long ago, still he looked forward to the examining of them with a strange anxiety.
When they came, they brought only disappointment with them—one was a hideous trunk, absolutely empty; the other a small dressing-case that had been costly when first made, the clasps and fastenings being of silver. The bottles inside had no doubt been made of silver, but they were all gone. It was a melancholy relic, and Wyndham, looking at it, told himself that probably Ella’s mother had picked it up for the sake of its outside beauty (the wood was Coromandel, and very pretty) at some cheap sale. Inside it was as empty of information as the trunk itself, a reel or two of thread, a pair of old black silk gloves, and a little bit of fancy work half done, being the only things to be seen. No letters or clue of any sort. It looked like the dressing-case of a young girl. On the lid were engraved the letters E. B. He was right, then—of course Ella’s mother had bought it. What could E. B. have to do with Mrs. Haynes? Unless her maiden name. But it seemed a common story, scarce worth looking into any further. All that was to be seen to now was Moore’s departure. And this he saw to effectually, getting up on a pouring morning to see Moore off, and giving him half of the cheque agreed on, as he left the outward-bound ship that took Moore with it. The big trunk he got rid of through the means of Denis, who burnt it, and the dressing-case he took down to Ella, who regarded it with reverence, and made a little special place for it on one of the small tables in the drawing-room of the Cottage. It was all that remained to her, poor child—all that she knew—of the woman who was her mother.