“Tell him not to speak of it then. Beauchamp’s safe, for his sympathies are with Richard—oh, yes, they are, justice, ask him the question plainly if you like, and he will confess to it. I can tell you more sympathy goes with Richard than is acknowledged to you. But I would not show that letter to anyone else than Beauchamp,” added Mr. Carlyle, “neither would I speak of it.”
“Who can have written it?” repeated the justice. “It bears, you see the London Post-mark.”
“It is too wide a speculation to enter upon. And no satisfactory conclusion could come of it.”
Justice Hare departed. Mr. Carlyle watched him down the avenue, striding under his umbrella, and then went up to Richard. Miss Carlyle was sitting with the latter then.
“I thought I should have died,” spoke poor Dick. “I declare, Mr. Carlyle, my very blood seemed turned to water, and I thought I should have died with fright. Is he gone away—is all safe?”
“He is gone, and it’s all safe.”
“And what did he want? What was it he had heard about me?”
Mr. Carlyle gave a brief explanation, and Richard immediately set down the letter as the work of Thorn.
“Will it be possible for me to see my mother this time?” he demanded of Mr. Carlyle.
“I think it would be highly injudicious to let your mother know you are here, or have been here,” was the answer of Mr. Carlyle. “She would naturally be inquiring into particulars, and when she came to hear that you were pursued, she would never have another minute’s peace. You must forego the pleasure of seeing her this time, Richard.”