It took Schinkel a long time to unfold this story—his calm and conscientious thoroughness made no allowance for any painful acuteness of curiosity that Hyacinth might feel. He went from step to step, and treated his different points with friendly explicitness, as if each would have exactly the same interest for his companion. The latter made no attempt to hurry him, and indeed he listened, now, with a kind of intense patience; for he was interested, and, moreover, it was clear to him that he was safe with Schinkel; the German would satisfy him in time—wouldn’t worry him with attaching conditions to their transaction, in spite of the mistake he had made in going for guidance to Lisson Grove. Hyacinth learned in due course that on returning to his apartment and opening the little packet of which he had been put into possession, Mr Schinkel had found himself confronted with two separate articles: one a sealed letter superscribed with our young man’s name, the other a sheet of paper containing in three lines a request that within two days of receiving it he would hand the letter to the ‘young Robinson’. The three lines in question were signed D. H., and the letter was addressed in the same hand. Schinkel professed that he already knew the writing; it was that of Diedrich Hoffendahl. “Good, good,” he said, exerting a soothing pressure upon Hyacinth’s arm. “I will walk with you to your door, and I will give it to you there; unless you like better that I should keep it till to-morrow morning, so that you may have a quiet sleep—I mean in case it might contain anything that will be disagreeable to you. But it is probably nothing; it is probably only a word to say that you need think no more about your engagement.”
“Why should it be that?” Hyacinth asked.
“Probably he has heard that you repent.”
“That I repent?” Hyacinth stopped him short; they had just reached the top of Park Lane. “To whom have I given a right to say that?”
“Ah well, if you haven’t, so much the better. It may be, then, for some other reason.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Schinkel,” Hyacinth returned, as they walked along. And in a moment he went on, “What the devil did you go and tattle to the Poupins for?”
“Because I thought they would like to know. Besides, I felt my responsibility; I thought I should carry it better if they knew it. And then, I’m like them—I lofe you.”
Hyacinth made no answer to this profession; he asked the next instant, “Why didn’t your young man bring the letter directly to me?”
“Ah, I didn’t ask him that! The reason was probably not complicated, but simple—that those who wrote it knew my address and didn’t know yours. And wasn’t I one of your guarantors?”
“Yes, but not the principal one. The principal one was Muniment. Why was the letter not sent to me through him?”