“It might be done, so; yes, that would do. I suppose,” he said, at length addressing me, “if Master Wilford were taken into custody on a magistrate's warrant at half-past four a.m., that would suit your ideas very nicely? I can so arrange the matter that Wilford will never be able to trace the laying the information to our door.”
“But how can you avoid that?” inquired I.
“Why, if you must know,” replied Freddy, “I am acquainted with a man who would give a hundred pounds any day to stop our friend Stephen from fighting a duel.”
“What, do you know Wilford then?” asked I.
“Ray-ther,” was the reply, accompanied by a very significant wink—“just a very few—I should say we're not entire strangers, though I have never enjoyed the honour of much personal intercourse with him; but I do not so deeply regret that, as, from your account, it seems rather a dangerous privilege.”
“How in the world do you know anything about him?”
“Oh! it's a long story, but the chief points of it are these: The aforesaid Mr. Wilford, if he can continue to exist till he is five-and-twenty, comes into five thousand pounds a year; but if we don't interfere, and Harry Oaklands has the luck to send a bullet into him to-morrow morning, away it all goes to the next heir. Wilford is now three-and-twenty, and the trustees make him a liberal allowance of eight hundred pounds per annum, on the strength of which he spends between two thousand pounds and three thousand pounds: of course, in order to do this, he has to raise money on his expectancies. About two months ago he wanted to sell the contingent reversion of a large estate in Yorkshire, from which the greater part of his future income is to be derived; and a client of ours thought of buying it—ergo, we were set to work upon the matter: whilst we were investigating his right, title, and all that sort of thing, lo and behold! a heavy claim, amounting to some thousands, is made upon the property—by whom, do you think, of all people in the world?—none other than our old acquaintance, Richard Cumberland!”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed I, “how strange!”
“Cumberland,” continued Freddy, “has become somehow connected with a lot of bill-brokers,—low stock-jobbers,—in fact, a very shady set of people, with whom, however, in our profession, we cannot avoid being sometimes brought into contact; he appears, indeed, himself to be a sort of cross between black-leg and money-lender, improved by a considerable dash of the gambler, and presenting altogether a very choice specimen of the thorough and complete blackguard. Somehow or other he contrives to have cash at command, and, instead of being pigeoned, has now taken to pigeoning others; and, to give the devil his due, I fancy he does a very pretty stroke of business in that line. He is a good deal improved in manner and appearance since you remember him; and among people who don't know him very intimately, he affects the man about town: in short, he is quite at the top of his profession. Wilford became acquainted with him at one of the Newmarket meetings, lost money to him, and borrowed money of him, giving him as security a contingent charge upon the estate of double the amount—ergo, don't you see, if Wilford should by any chance get his quietus from Harry's pistol, he won't live to come into his property, in which case Master Dicky Cumberland is minus some thousands. Now, if I contrive to give him a hint, depend upon it he stops the duel. I will caution him not to let my name appear—he will not hear yours; so in this way I think we may manage the affair, and defy the old gentleman himself, though he's a very cunning lawyer, to trace it to us.”
“Well,” said I, “as I see no other means of saving Oaklands' life—for this Wilford is a noted duellist, and no doubt thirsts to wash out the insult he has received in blood—I suppose we must do it; but it is an underhand proceeding which I do not at all like.”