“Are you acquainted with a copyist named Wynne,—Jacob Wynne?”—asked Mr. Sharp, looking searchingly at his late client.
Lewis Rand started, and his sallow face grew red and white by turns.
“Well,” said he, with a vain effort to speak carelessly, “and if I do?”
“He is now an inmate of the Tombs,” said Mr. Sharp, significantly.
Lewis rose from his seat, and paced the room. At length he paused before the lawyer.
“Why do you tell me this?” he demanded fiercely, “What have I to do with a paltry scrivener? What is it to me that he is in prison? Doubtless he has been there before, and you too, for ought I know.”
“He was arrested on a charge of forgery,” said the lawyer, slowly, watching the effect of this announcement on his companion.
Lewis sat down, brought to bay at last, and leaned his head upon the table. He no longer dared to evade the subject. He felt that the danger was imminent, and must be confronted.
“How was his arrest brought about?” he inquired.
“Through the agency of a woman,—his wife, I believe,—who, in consequence of some quarrel, wishes to revenge herself upon this Jacob. When the forgery was committed she was a concealed spectator, and saw and heard the whole. She can swear to the person who employed Jacob Wynne to do this service! Nor is this all. She has a piece of paper—a torn half sheet—which was used by the copyist to try his pen on that night. It contains a name several times repeated.”