Somewhat troublesome as the apprehension of this unfortunate young man had been, it was far more easy than to procure the proper evidence to support an indictment. It turned out, to the annoyance of the authorities, who had no doubt of his guilt, that the imitation of the handwriting of Mr M——o was so skilfully executed, that the cheat was almost too much for the engravers. Forgery is, in this respect, a peculiar kind of crime. You may prove that the forger drew the money; but what then, if he was the person that ought to have drawn it for his master? Then, of whatever respectability the proprietor of the forged name, he is only a witness on his own behalf. Suppose the imitation inimitable, where are you? Yet it is to be confessed that so fine a case seldom happens, so that what I have said about the devil’s limp is true here. It seems to be almost beyond the power of a human being to write the name of another in all respects so like that it cannot be detected, even although he has been in the practice of doing so several times a-day for years. But what is still more wonderful, as I’ve been told—for I am now speaking much from hearsay—it is even more difficult to imitate a rude and illiterate hand than a learned one; just as if Providence cared more for the poor, who cannot so well guard and protect themselves against such attempts.
The indictment was, however, prepared and served, and as the case was now more in the hands of the engravers, I had little to do with it; but I could not get quit of my portrait. There it was, still in my waistcoat pocket, just as if I had been some love-smitten swain, doing the romantic, notwithstanding my advanced years; so, thought I sometimes, if I had dropt down dead, or hung myself on a tree, or thrown myself over the Dean Bridge, as wiser men have done before me, what a story might have been founded on this miniature, and how appropriate for a woodcut stuck in front of my works! Doubtless some italic letters would have been in request by the printer:—“This great man hanged himself for love. The object of his affections was never known, and must remain a mysterious secret till that time when all things shall be revealed.”
But even such thoughts as these had passed away. One night I went home late. I lighted my gas and sat down by the fire, in one of those reveries which have always taken possession of me when alone; very unlike other people’s reveries, I suspect—for while these are occupied about catching money, or sweethearts, or fame, and sometimes the faces of departed friends, mine never had any other object than the catching of men. From a dream of this kind, and far removed from the case of the young man O——, I heard my door open, and, looking up, saw before me the figure of a fine tall young woman, muffled up in a cloak, and with a veil drawn closely under her chin, and held there by a gloved hand. Even I was amazed; for though I have had strange visitors, there was a something about this one that I am not much in the habit of seeing, at least within the walls of my humble dwelling—something of style and breeding so much above my Bess M‘Diarmids and my Jean Brashes, that I was put off my calculations as to character.
“Are you Mr M‘Levy?” said she, in a clear silvery voice.
“It was you, I think, who apprehended the unfortunate young man, Mr L—— O——?”
“Yes.”
“When you took him away from his lodgings, did you see about him the miniature of a young female?”
“Yes,” replied I; and here my practical character began to shew signs of activity. I suspected my mysterious visitor had under her veil the fair face from which that miniature had been painted, and my detective instincts carried my hand to my waistcoat pocket.
“Now, my young lady,” said I, “we have a peculiar curiosity about concealed things. If you will shew me your face, I will tell you whether this miniature I hold in my hand is the one you are inquiring after.”