Then fare-thee-weel, auld Nickie-Ben,
Ah, wad you tak’ a thoucht, and men’!
You aiblins might—I dinna ken—
Still hae a stake!
I’m wae to think upon yon den,
E’en for your sake!
For “den” substitute “journal,” and the allusion—though not the rhyme—would be perfect. I, for one, am “wae to think” of the diabolic journalism of the period, even for the sake of—Lagardère!’
As Sutherland hurried away through the night, driving to catch a late train at a lonely railway station seven miles from Mount Eden, his thoughts were not of Lagardère and the newest thing in journalism, but of her whom that man and that system had helped to destroy. A wild suspicion, deepening almost to certainty, and based upon the extraordinary resemblance between Madeline Forster and the woman calling herself Jane Peartree, had complete possession of his mind. Strange and impossible as it seemed, he could not shake away the belief that Jane Peartree was, in flesh or spirit, the living image of the woman whose death he had avenged on the body of Gavrolles.
It may be a propos, at this point, to allay the reader’s curiosity as to what took place at Boulogne after Gavrolles fell by Sutherland’s hand. Of course there was an inquiry and a great scandal—duels with fatal terminations being very unusual in these days. Forster lay at the hotel slowly recovering from his wound, under surveillance. Sutherland was under arrest for some hours, and was only released on giving substantial pledges to appear when called upon. For a time it seemed likely that a prosecution of a serious nature would ensue; but money and influence were brought to bear on the authorities, and the two Englishmen were eventually suffered, whilst the police pretended to ‘look another way,’ to cross the Channel.