Would the man never be done? He laid the newspaper across his knee, and pointed his words with little gestures made over it. A glance would have been enough to show her what it was. But no, let patience have its perfect work. By moments she closed her eyes not to see him, and spoke not a word.
“Well, you see, the business of overlooking these American investments comes upon me; and I get a great many of their papers to glance at—trashy things, full of personal gossip, the most outrageous nonsense. I don’t often look beyond the share lists. But this morning, when I first came into the office, this thing was lying on my table. I had glanced at it, and taken what was of use in it yesterday. It’s just a wonder how it got there again. I gave another glance at it by pure chance, if you’ll believe me, as I slipped on my office-coat. And my eye was caught by a name. Well, it was only an alias, among a lot of others; but I’ve been told that away there in these wild places you can never tell which may be a man’s real name—as like as not the fifth or sixth alias in a long line.”
He looked up at her by chance, and it seemed to him as if his client had fainted. Her face was drawn and perfectly white, the eyes half closed.
“Bless me!” he cried, starting up; “it’s been more than she could bear. What can I do?—some water, or maybe ring the bell.”
He was about to do this when she caught him with one hand, and with the other pointed to the paper. Something like “Let me hear it,” came from her half-closed lips.
“That I will! that I will!” he cried. It was a relief that she could speak and see. He took up the paper, and was—how long—a year? of finding the place.
“It’s just this,” he said; “it’s an account of a broil in which some of those wild fellows got killed: and among the lot of them that was present, there was one, an Englishman they say—but that’s nothing, for they call us all Englishmen abroad. Our fathers would never have stood it; but what can you do? it’s handiest when all’s said—an Englishman that had been about a ranch, and had been a miner, and had been a coach-driver, and I don’t know all what; but this is his name, ‘Jim Smith, alias Horse-breaking Jim, alias James Jones, alias Bob the Devil, alias,’” here he held up his finger to arrest her attention, “‘Robert Ogilvy. It is suspected that the last may be his real name.’”
Mrs Ogilvy was incapable of speech. She signed for the paper, raising herself a little in her chair.
“That is just all there is: you would not understand the story. I’ve just carefully read it to you. Well, madam, if you will have it.” The old gentleman was much disturbed. He let her take the paper because he could not resist it, and then he went of his own accord and rang the bell. “Will ye bring a little wine, or even a drop of brandy?” he said, going to meet Janet at the door, “if your mistress ever takes it. She has had a bit shock, and she’s not very well.”
She had got the paper in her hands. The touch of that real thing brought her back more or less to herself. She sat up and held it to the light, and read it every word. There was more of it than Mr Somerville had read. It was an account of a tumult at which murder had been done—no accident, but cold-blooded murder, and the names given were of men more or less involved. The last of these, perhaps, therefore, the least guilty, was this man of many names, Robert Ogilvy—oh, to see it there in such a record! The bonnie name, all breathing of youth and cheerful life, with the face of the fresh boy looking at her through it!—Robbie, her Robbie, alias Jim, alias Bob, alias—— She clasped her hands together with the paper between them, and “O Lord God!” she said, in tones wrung out of her very heart.