Mr. Checkynshaw was really troubled now. Another of the recipients of his bounty had proved faithless; one renegade beneficiary had played into the hands of another. André had shaved him for years, but had never said a word about the hospitals of Paris to him; indeed, André had never said anything to him, except in answer to his own questions.
In reply to his inquiries, Mrs. Wittleworth stated that the barber had called upon her, and repeated what he had said, in evidence of the truth of her assertion that Marguerite was dead.
"Perhaps André means to be truthful, and to assert only what he believes to be true; but he is mistaken," said Mr. Checkynshaw, nervously. "Do you think I should not know my own child when I saw her?"
"Of course you would; but André is very positive your child was the Marguerite Chuckingham that died," added Mrs. Wittleworth.
"This matter is too ridiculous to take up my time for a moment. I am ready to abide the decision of the court," continued the banker, taking his hat and moving towards the door. "I hope you are equally ready to do so, Ellen."
"I wish to do only what is right," replied she. "Will you see my husband?"
"No; I will not," answered Mr. Checkynshaw. "If he wished to see me before he commenced this suit, it would have been proper for him to do so. I shall not run after him."
"And he will not run after you," interposed Fitz. "Justice and humanity—"
"Be still, Fitz."
"We shall retain Choate in this case. Me and Choate have talked the matter over, and—"