“Well, have you heard from him since?”
“Yes—yesterday morning I received a note, asking me to call at his office. When I got there, this is what he said. He said that he had read the indictment, and consulted his chief, Mr. Orson, and pondered the matter pretty thoroughly. Extraordinary as the proceeding would be, he had decided to do as I wished. ’Because,’ he added, ’there’s a mighty strong case against the woman, and I shouldn’t wonder if it would be worth our while to try her. At any rate, if you can set us on her track, we’ll arrest her and take our chances. We’ve made quite a point, you know, of unearthing indictments that our predecessors had pigeonholed; and more than once we’ve secured a conviction. It doesn’t follow that because the jury in the Peixada case stultified themselves, another jury will. So, you go ahead with your inquiries; and when she’s firmly pinned down, we’ll take her in custody. Then, after you’ve recovered your money, we can step in and do our best to send her up to Sing Sing.’—I declare, I was half sorry to have prepared new troubles for the poor creature; but, you see, our interests are now perfectly protected.”
“A brilliant stroke!” cried Peixada. “Then we shall not merely rescue my brother’s property, but, indirectly at least, we shall avenge his death! I am delighted. Now we must redouble our efforts to ferret her out.”
“Precisely. And that brings me to another point. I have had a long letter—sixteen solid pages—from Ulrich, the Austrian lawyer. He has traced her from Vienna to Paris, from Paris to London. He’s in London now, working up his clew. The last news of her dates back to May, 1882. On the 23d of that month she left the hotel she had been stopping at in London, and went—Ulrich is trying to discover where. I think our best course now will be to retain an English solicitor, and let him carry the matter on from the point Ulrich has reached. With your approval, I shall cable Ulrich to put the affair into the hands of Mr. Reginald Graham, a London attorney in whom I have the utmost confidence. What do you think?”
“Oh, you’re right. No doubt about that. Meantime, here.”—Peixada handed his legal adviser a check for one hundred dollars. “This is to keep up your spirits,” he said.
The above conference had taken place on the forenoon of Wednesday, the 25th of June. It was on that afternoon that Arthur started to read “The Snow Image” to Mrs. Lehmyl.
Next day, after an eternity of impatience, he rang her bell.
“Mrs. Lehmyl,” said the servant, “is sick in her room with a headache.”
“What?” cried Arthur, and stood still, gaping for dismay.
“Yes,” repeated Bridget; “sick in her room.”