"He won't get much out of his prey if he does," said Blair, with a nod to Beauchamp. "I have seen Mrs. Warrender."
The old man turned as white as the beard he wore.
"And--and--what does she say?" he stammered.
"Say!" Blair seated himself and chuckled. "She says two thousand pounds will pay her for that confession."
"Then it does exist! Warrender knew the truth!"
"Of course. Didn't I tell you the man was a blackmailing scoundrel? Faith! and his wife is not much better. Two thousand pounds for a bit of paper!"
"And for my freedom!" said Beauchamp excitedly. "Oh to think of being free from the horror which has hung over me all these years! And Warrender knew the truth! What a scoundrel! He always swore that he knew nothing, and I paid him money to hold his tongue about my supposed guilt. Ungrateful wretch! He and his wife arrived in England almost penniless. I met him in London, and, as he knew my story, I brought him down here. I helped him in every way. How was it he left a confession behind him?"
"It is an old confession," replied Blair. "It seems that Warrender fell ill of fever in New Orleans. His conscience smote him for his villainy, and he made a full confession, signed it, and had it witnessed. When he recovered he did not destroy it, but kept it safely with the rest of his papers. There Mrs. Warrender found it, and she is now prepared to sell it for two thousand pounds. A nice sum, upon my word!" grumbled Blair.
"She shall have it," said Beauchamp eagerly. "I would pay five thousand for that confession--I would indeed!"
"I dare say. But Mrs. Warrender will give it to you for the lesser sum, sir."