I have said that I was somewhat surprised. My friend had occasionally mentioned the name of George Ellis, his father’s ward, and had more than once spoken of his own sister Mary. But though I had deemed our intimacy sufficient for almost any confidence, he had never touched upon circumstances bearing in the remotest degree upon those which had thus accidentally met my eye. Indeed I recollected, or thought I recollected, that there had always been a certain reserve in his conversation about Ellis, which had at times excited a casual curiosity. Now the mystery was in a measure explained. From the letter in my hand I could gather at a glance the main features of this family trouble. I afterwards learned that its most important events had happened after I parted with my friend.
“What names have they given?” said I to the officer, handing back the letter.
“None at all,” he replied. “The short one can’t or won’t talk English, and the other is stubborn and says nothing. They’ve jabbered together a little in some foreign gibberish, but we can’t get any thing out of ’em, do our best. If they knew what they were about they’d just give in their names at once as John Smith, or John Jones, and have done with it. That’s the way the knowing ones do.”
At this instant some one tapped at the door, opened it slightly, and informed me that the coach was waiting for me. Attracted by the sound the younger of the prisoners turned fully round. I had been looking for such a movement, and whispering to the servant that I would be there presently, and that in the meantime he could take down my trunk, I stood for a moment longer by the side of the officer, and with as little that was offensive in my glance as possible, returned steadily the gaze of the culprit.
The officer was right. In so young a man I had never seen so bad a face. Marks of brutal passion and dissipation mingled with an expression of sullen fear upon a countenance which might once have been handsome, but was now far otherwise. His eyes were heavy and bloodshot, and his skin red and bloated. But he could not bear my scrutiny, and cut it short by turning again to the window. I had already delayed longer than I should have done, and bidding the officer a hasty good-bye, I left the room.
In ten minutes more I was driving rapidly away. On my return, I again passed through the town, and found upon inquiry the result of the arrest. The elder of the prisoners had been convicted upon the testimony of the younger; the former was in prison, the latter at large.
In the pressure of business, however, and of life’s pursuits, the connected impressions of that scene soon went from me. Matters of deeper interest occupied my mind and enlisted my attention. My correspondence with Eagleton, in which of course I never hinted at my singular adventure, became less and less frequent, and at last ceased entirely; and before the time over which I now pass so hastily had gone by, I had well nigh forgotten my early friendship.
It was some five years after the occurrence of the scene which I have described, that on a visit to the city in whose college I had received a part of my education, I had occasion to employ counsel to advise me in the conduct of perplexed and unpleasant business. Seven years’ absence from the place had nearly obliterated my slight knowledge of its society, and I was obliged to make some inquiry in reference to the character and comparative ability of different members of the bar. Among other names mentioned to me with commendation was that of Henry Eagleton, my chum and classmate.
I sought no further, but determined without loss of time to see him, revive our acquaintance, and obtain his services. With the name, too, came back my recollection of the scene at ——, and I felt a deep desire to discover, if I could do so with delicacy, the sequel to the brief narrative of that stolen letter. I obtained his address, and soon stood at the door of his office. I knocked, and in obedience to a call from within, entered.