“On that,” the lawyer replied, pointing to the paper, “and on other evidence besides.”
The curate flinched. Had they found Felton, the earl’s servant? Had they any more scraps of paper—any more self-wrought damning evidence of that kind? It was only by an effort, which was apparent to one at least of his hearers, that he gathered himself together, and answered, with a show of promptitude and ease, “Other evidence? What, I ask? Produce it!”
“Here it is,” said Mr. Bonamy, pointing to Jack Smith, who had been standing at his elbow throughout the discussion.
“What has he to do with it?” Clode muttered with dry lips.
“Only this,” the barrister said quietly, addressing himself to the archdeacon. “That some time ago I saw Mr. Clode replace a packet in the cupboard in the rector’s library. He only discovered my presence in the room when the cupboard door was open, and his agitation on observing me struck me as strange. Afterward I made inquiries of Mr. Lindo, without telling him my reason, and learned that Mr. Clode had no business at that cupboard—which was, in fact, devoted to the rector’s private papers.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Clode, you will explain that,” said the lawyer with quiet triumph.
He might have denied it had he spoken out at once. He might have given Jack the lie. But he saw with sudden and horrible clearness how this thing fitted that other thing, and this evidence corroborated that; and he lost his presence of mind, and for a moment stood speechless, glaring at his new accuser. He did not need to look at the archdeacon to be sure that his face was no longer grave only, but stern and suspicious. The gas-jets flared before his eyes and dazzled him. The room seemed to be turning. He could not answer. It was only when he had stood for an age, as it seemed to him, dumb and self-convicted before those three faces, that he summoned up courage to mutter, “It is false. It is all false, I say!” and to stamp his foot on the floor.
But no one answered him, and he quailed. His nerves were shaken. He, who on ordinary occasions prided himself on his tact and management, dared not now urge another word in his own defence lest some new piece of evidence should arise to give him the lie. The meaning silence of his accusers and his own conscience were too much for him. And, suddenly snatching up his hat, which lay on a chair beside him, he rushed from the room.
He had not gone fifty yards along the pavement before he recognized the mad folly of this retreat—the utter surrender of all his hopes and ambitions which it meant. But it was too late. The strong man had met a stronger. His very triumph and victory had gone some way toward undoing him, by rendering him more open to surprise and less prepared for sudden attack. Now it was too late to do more than repent. He saw that. Hurrying through the darkness, heedless whither he went, he invented a dozen stories to explain his conduct. But always the archdeacon’s grave face rose before him, and he rejected the clever fictions and the sophisms in support of them, which his ingenuity was now so quick to suggest.
How he cursed the madness, the insensate folly, which had wrecked him! Had he only let matters take their own course and stood aside, he would have gained his ends! For a minute and a half he had been as good as rector of Claversham. And now!