“Ay, he could touch nothing but his share of the income,” said the Squire.
“And on that, no doubt, he had already raised what he could. A mere drop in the bucket, I dare say. However it be, he was certainly in a desperate condition. I don’t know whether you’ve ever seen the inside of a debtors’ prison, sir,—”
“Ecod, man, not me!”
“Only as a matter of curiosity, sir, I meant. But you’ll take my word for it, I hope, that ’tis really no place for a gentleman. The fear of it would drive a man of Mr. Foxwell’s habits, I can well believe, to desperate measures. Well, sir, what did he do, when he saw everything failing him, but write a letter to the baronet—he had written three before, and got no answer—a letter to the baronet, from the sponging-house, in which he said that if the baronet didn’t come to his assistance immediately, he’d be damned if he wouldn’t confess all and let the world know who really got Lord Hilby’s money that night. Yes, sir, in black and white he wrote those words, which distinctly appear in the letter,—‘Confess all and let the world know who got Lord Hilby’s money that night.’ So the baronet obligingly went to his assistance.”
“And how did all this come to your ears?” queried the Squire.
“The baronet threw the letter, as he thought, into the fire. But he had a faithful servant, who hooked it out, as a matter of habit, read it in private, and filed it away for future reference. He didn’t see any occasion to refer to it, the faithful servant didn’t, for a long time. Meanwhile, Mr. Foxwell, after various ups and downs, finally left London; and the baronet died. The faithful servant became waiting-gentleman to a king’s officer, and went through the campaign in Scotland. Being wounded, and losing his place, he set out to return to London. He had heard what county Mr. Foxwell had sought retirement in, and, having to pass through that county on his way South, he thought it might be worth while to look the gentleman up and see whether he attached any value to an interesting specimen of his earlier handwriting.”
“So you are the baronet’s faithful servant?”
“Yes, your honour,—Jeremiah Filson, at your service. And here is the letter.”
He produced a pocket-book from the breast of his coat, and brought the document out of a double wrapper of soft paper. Holding it tightly with both hands, he placed it within reading distance of the Squire, having first drawn it back with a polite “Your pardon, sir,” when the latter made an involuntary reach for it.
“His hand, sure enough,” said the Squire, who had sufficient reason in the correspondence preceding their litigation to know his neighbour’s penmanship. He first examined the signature, “R. Foxwell,” and then carefully read the note—dashed off with a scratchy pen and complete disregard for appearance—from beginning to end. The sheet was slightly burnt at one side, and had in all respects the evidence of genuineness.