“No. He wouldn't consent to see me.”
“Why, I tell you, he's a madman,” said Sir Lionel. “He must be. No sane man could think of such a thing. Why, this is England, and the nineteenth century. The days of private imprisonment are over. He's mad! The man's mad!”
“But what is to be done, Sir Lionel?” asked Miss Plympton, impatiently.
“Done!” cried Sir Lionel—“every thing! First, we must get Miss Dalton out of that rascal's clutches; then we, must hand that fellow and his confederates over to the law. And if it don't end in Botany Bay and hard labor for life, then there's no law in the land. Why, who is he? A pettifogger—a miserable low-born, low-bred, Liverpool pettifogger!”
“Do you know him?”
“Know him, madam! I know all about him—that is, as much as I want to know.”
“Do you know anything about the relations that formerly existed between him and Mr. Frederick Dalton?”
“Relations!” said Sir Lionel, pouring out another glass of wine—“relations, madam—that is—ah—to say—ah—business relations, madam? Well, they were those of patron and client, I believe—nothing more. I believe that this Wiggins was one to whom poor Dalton behaved very kindly—made him what he is, in fact—and this is his reward! A pettifogger, by Heaven!—a pettifogger! Seizing the Dalton estates, the scoundrel, and then putting Miss Dalton under lock and key! Why, the man's mad—mad! yes, a raving maniac! He is, by Heaven!”
“And now, Sir Lionel, when shall we be able to effect her release!”
“Leave it all to me. Leave it all to me, madam. This infernal gout of mine ties me up, but I'll take measures this very day; I'll send off to Dalton an agent that will free Miss Dalton and bring her here. Leave it to me. If I don't go, I'll send—yes, by Heaven, I'll send my son. But give yourself no trouble, madam. Miss Dalton is as good as free at this moment, and Wiggins is as good as in jail.”