‘Why did you tell me this?’ Edgar said, pained and shocked at the recital and its horrible climax.
‘Well, you see I wanted to convince you of the truth of my words. I shall never allude to my story again, and I hope you never will either; though I dream of it at times.—Your wife’s uncle kept that paper, and I have not the slightest doubt that the same plan has been taken as regards his wealth. I can’t explain it to you at this moment; but from the description you have given of his last letter, I have not the smallest hesitation in saying that it is formed on the same lines as the fatal note I have told you of. Charlie Morton was a good fellow, but he had not the slightest imagination or originality.’
‘And you really think that paper contains a secret of importance?’
‘Never doubted it for a moment. Look at the whole circumstances. Fancy your meeting me; fancy my knowing your uncle; fancy—— Bah! It’s clear as mud.’
‘The coincidences are certainly wonderful.’
‘Well, they are a few.—And now,’ said Mr Slimm, dropping into his most pronounced Yankee style, ‘let this Adonis truss his points, freeze onto a clean biled rag, and don his plug-hat, and we’ll go and interview that interestin’ epistle—yes, sir.’
CHAPTER XI.
Edgar and his transatlantic companion walked along Holborn in silence. The former was deeply immersed in thought; and the American, in spite of his forced gaiety, had not yet lost all trace of his late emotion. Presently, they quitted the busy street and turned into one of the narrow lanes leading to Queen Square. Arrived at the house, they were admitted by the grimy diminutive maid-of-all-work, and slowly ascended the maze of stairs leading to Edgar’s sitting-room. There were two persons who looked up as they entered—Eleanor and Jasper Felix. Edgar performed the ceremony of introduction, asking his companion if he had ever heard of the great novelist. He had.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Slimm impressively, ‘I believe that name has been mentioned in my hearing once, if not more.—Allow me to shake hands with you, sir. I ain’t given to worshipping everybody who writes a ream of nonsense and calls it a novel; but when I come across men like you, I want to remember it. We don’t have many of your stamp across the Atlantic, though Nathaniel Hawthorne runs you very close.’
‘Indeed, you are very complimentary,’ Felix replied; ‘and I take your word as flattering. I don’t like flattery as a rule, especially American flattery. It is rare, in a general way. I feel as if they always want something, you know.’