The old man, still sitting by the fire, had caught a few of the muttered words, and before Major Lane could leave the room Thomas Carden had risen from his chair, his face paler, perhaps, than usual, but once more his collected, dignified self. “Stay,” he said firmly; “having gone so far, I think we should now thresh the matter out.”
He walked over to where his son and his friend were standing, and he put his hand on the older man’s arm. “Perhaps I cannot expect you, Lane, to be convinced, as I, of course, have been convinced, by my son’s denials. It is, as I told you this afternoon, either a plot on the part of some one who bears a grudge against us, or else—what I think more likely—there are two men in this great town each bearing the name of Theodore Carden. But I appreciate, I deeply appreciate, the generous kindness which made you come and warn us of this impending calamity; but you need not fear that we shall fail to meet it with a complete answer.”
“Father! Major Lane! What do you mean?” For the first time a feeling of misgiving swept over Theodore Carden’s mind. Without waiting for an answer, he led the way back to the fireplace and, deliberately drawing forward a chair, motioned to Major Lane to sit down likewise.
“Now then,” he said, speaking with considerable authority and decision, “I think I have a right to ask what this is all about. In what way are we, my father and myself, concerned in the Garvice affair? For my part, Major Lane, I can assure you, and that, if you wish it, on oath, that I did not know Mr. Garvice, and, to the best of my belief, I have never seen, still less spoken to, Mrs. Garvice——”
“If that be indeed so,” said the man whom he addressed, and who, for the first time, was beginning to feel himself shaken in his belief, nay, in his absolute knowledge, that the young man was perjuring himself, “can you, and will you, explain these letters?” and he drew out of his pocket a folded sheet of foolscap.
Carden bent forward eagerly; there was no doubt, so the Head Constable admitted to himself, as to his eagerness to be brought face to face with the accusation—and yet, at that moment, a strong misgiving came over Major Lane. Was it right, was it humane, to subject him to this terrible test, and that, too, before his old father? Whatever the young man’s past relation to Mrs. Garvice, nay, whatever his connection might be with the crime which Major Lane believed to have been committed, Carden was certainly ignorant of the existence of these terrible, these damnatory documents, and they constituted so far the only proof that Carden had been lying when he denied any knowledge of Mrs. Garvice. But then, alas! they constituted an irrefutable proof.
With a sudden movement Major Lane withdrew his right hand, that which held the piece of paper: “Stop a moment, Carden; do you really wish this discussion to take place before your father? I wonder if you remember—” he paused, and then went on firmly—“an interview you and I had many years ago?”
For the first time Theodore Carden’s whole manner changed; a look of fear, even of guilt, came over his strong, intelligent face.
“Father,” he said imploringly, “I beg you not to listen to Major Lane. He is alluding to a matter which he gave me his word—his word of honour—should never be mentioned to any one, least of all to you”; then, turning with an angry gesture to the Head Constable, “Was that not so?” he asked imperiously.
“Yes, I admit that by making this allusion I have broken my word, but good God! man, this is no passing scrape that we have to consider now; to-morrow morning all Birmingham will be ringing with your name—with your father’s name, Theodore—for by some damnable mischance the papers have got hold of the letters in question. I did my best, but I found I was powerless.” He turned and deliberately looked away, as he added in a low, hesitating voice: “And now, once more I ask you whether we had better not delay this painful discussion until you and I are alone?”