“There is no mistake in the case, my friend, unless it be your fancying that, because you have shaved off your whiskers and dyed your hair, I should not recognise you—that is a complete mistake.”
The person thus addressed turned pale and bit his lip; but, making an effort to recover himself, replied—
“I do not understand you, sir; you are labouring under some delusion; allow me to pass directly, or I shall ring and summon the waiter.”
“You’d better not,” returned D’Almayne, drily, “for that is the signal agreed on—for him instantly to fetch a policeman.”
The stranger glanced towards the door, on which D’Almayne quietly produced the key, and, when it had caught his eye replaced it in his pocket; he then stretched his hand, with a hesitating and uncertain action, towards a stout stick on which he carried his valise; but D’Almayne drew from the breast pocket of his surtout the beautifully finished little revolving pistol which he always carried, and, having somewhat ostentatiously displayed it before the eyes of the individual he was thus brow-beating, returned it to its place of concealment, as the other with a sullen dogged look replaced his stick, and murmured—
“Well, Mr. D’Almayne, supposing you do happen to recognize me indulging in a little freak—supposing I have disguised myself the better to carry out a little intrigue of my own, why should that so greatly surprise you? I do not think you have ever found me absent from my post when business required me; you must be aware I have the interest of the establishment as much at heart as any of the parties connected with it; when they begin to play to-night in J———— Street, my frolic will be over, and I shall be in my proper place.”
“I think it’s highly probable you will, always supposing that place to be a cell in Pentonville prison, or, as you lodge in Westminster, the Penitentiary, perhaps; but it strikes me, that if I had not fortunately met you, you would at that hour have been tossing about in St. George’s Channel—as I happen to know you have taken your passage in a New York packet, which is to sail at eight this evening.” As D’Almayne spoke, he fixed his piercing eyes on the individual he addressed, who, unable to bear his scrutinizing glance, turned away muttering with an oath, “———— him, I thought he was safe in Holland.” After a moment’s reflection, he appeared to decide on the course best for him to follow—under what was evidently a contingency equally unforeseen and unsatisfactory.
“Assuredly there never was any one like you, Mr. D’Almayne, for shrewdness and penetration,” he said, in a tone of apparent frankness; “here am I (supposed by all who take an interest in my whereabouts to be in London), in a disguise in which my own mother (the poor soul has been dead these twenty years) would not have recognized me; at the first glance you penetrate it, and by intuition appear to have discovered my intention! How you have tracked me, or whether you have met me by accident, I am unable to divine; but, as you have discovered me, I think it is best to be frank with you, and to throw myself on your generosity—confident that you will deal leniently with your old associate, if I may venture to use the term, though, perhaps, your faithful follower would be more true; for I am well aware how such talent as yours raises you above us plodding poor fellows. But I will make a clean breast to you, sir. The fact is, I am no longer young; scarcely still middle-aged; and the life I have been for so many years engaged in is a hazardous and exhausting one. I have been a frugal and careful man, and I do not scruple to tell you, sir, that I have contrived to save a few hundred pounds. Well, sir, I have for some time wished to leave England, and settle in America, where I am unknown, and might begin the world afresh—in some quieter and more respectable line of life; so I thought I would avoid all the difficulties and all the troubles which, none are better aware than you, sir, would attend my quitting London just at this time, by taking French leave, and setting off in disguise and under a feigned name, hoping that in Mr. Maxwell, the traveller for a Manchester cotton firm, no one would recognize Le Roux, the croupier; and now, sir, having told you all, I throw myself on your generosity not to attempt (though I see no pretext on which you could legally do it) to detain me.”
While Le Roux had been making this statement, which he did with the air of a man convinced against his will that the only course left open to him is to declare the whole truth, come what may of it, D’Almayne had taken a pencil from his pocket, with which he had been writing certain calculations on the back of a card. As soon as the other had concluded, he observed quietly—“I have been making a rough estimate of all the available cash on which you could lay your hand, and it appears to me, that, owing to my folly in resting contented with the belief that it was your interest to be honest, you have at least £15,000 in that leathern case of yours—a sum quite sufficient to tempt you to bolt, especially at a time when you fancied I was safely out of your way. I make it out thus the establishment in J———— Street has never less than £5000 ready to pay all demands; to that, of course, you have unlimited access, and have availed yourself of it. Then comes the Overland Route Railroad speculation; Guillemard writes me word that the shares are going off tolerably fast, and that something like £10,000 in hard cash has been paid into our bankers; a cheque signed by two of the directors would enable you to draw out the whole amount at any moment—your own signature as Herr Vondenthaler, the Belgian capitalist, provides for one, and the other would offer little difficulty to a man of your talent and experience. I have so strong a conviction that, in consequence of my absence, you will have done me the honour to select my name, that it is upon a charge of forgery I intend to have you apprehended, and to take you up to London in my company and that of a policeman.”
During this speech the varying expression on Le Roux’s face would have formed an interesting study to the physiognomist or the artist—at first, assumed indifference, changing to surprise, anxiety, and ill-concealed alarm—then astonishment and fear, merging in a state of bewildered terror which again gave place to an astute subtle look, as an idea occurred to him which might yet interpose to save him from the utter ruin to which the supernatural discovery, as it appeared to him, of his intended and partially executed villainy exposed him. As soon as D’Almayne had ended, Le Roux turned to him, and said in a low calm tone—