“Very sorry, I’m sure, for your sake, madam; but you see we don’t want your help now, although I should have been very glad to use it a minute or two ago! I shall write to that vagabond at once. He gave me an address at an hotel the other day, and he said he would stop there until the trial came on, in case we wanted to compromise, which, I confess, I once did. But now, hurrah! the rascal’s done for without that. I shall be happy to see you any other time, Miss Kingscott; but I shall have to be very busy now, and if you will excuse me—yes—good evening, madam—ah—” And the governess was bowed out.
Mr Trump, when he was by himself, gave vent to a long, congratulatory chuckle; after which he called out to his clerk, Smiffens, in the outer office, and told him all about it.
“By George, Smiffens! what fools we all have been to be sure. There was that plain evidence of the girl’s birth, and the date of the marriage staring us in the face all the time, and not one of us perceived it! By George! Smiffens, what a fool I am!”
“Certainly, sir,” answered the old clerk, meekly, his hair standing bolt upright as he spoke.
“Go to the devil, sir! What do you mean? Confound your impudence!”
“Certainly, sir,” said Smiffens, in the same tone of voice as before; and he went towards the door, slowly.
“Stop!” sang out Mr Trump, who had not paused a moment writing all the time. “Here, copy these two letters, and deliver them before you go home. One is for Mr Markworth fixing an appointment for to-morrow morning, so be sure to tell the waiter or porter at the Tavistock, where he is staying, to be certain and give it to him to-night. The other letter is for Solomonson and Isaacs, which you can post.”
The clerk did as he was bidden; and Mr Trump went off to his suburban home very well satisfied with his day’s work. No cause now or need for any witnesses or evidence, or for the praiseworthy exertions of Sergeants Thickhyde and Silvertong. The suit of “Markworth versus Hartshorne” was quashed ere yet it had begun.