"Tom," I said, seriously, "this is very unfortunate; but you were never more mistaken in your life. I have not been at the opera for weeks." Oh that wicked twinkle of his eye! "Well, my boy, I don't want to believe you were there; disbelieve anything you like; only——" "Tom, I can stand this no longer; I must not be played with; you must admit that I was not at the opera. I can bring the whole village of Cudgleton to prove an alibi. " "Glad to hear it, for peace of home's sake. Mrs. Sam took it very ill, can assure you; sorry, 'ceedingly sorry; but really the countess is a magnificent woman." "Who the devil cares now about the countess? I affirm that I have been at Cudgleton from Monday 4 P.M. till this morning 10 A.M. Left by express, and just arrived." "There's the bell, Sam; must say good-bye; remember me to your wife; purely accidental; 'ceedingly regret it; believe every word you say—will back it 'gainst all odds; remember me to your wife, and tell her I believe you, my boy. "
"Believe me, my boy!" and that's how Tom Cridlins left me,—light-hearted and gay-spirited, after having kindled a torch which Acheron itself could not quench.
I returned home. Of course Mrs. Sam was prepared to receive me. In vain I protested; in vain I insisted that Tom Cridlins was laboring under an illusion; I had brought him to confess as much. "Oh, then, you have seen him to-day; planning and scheming, I suppose, to get up a pack of contradictions. I understand; but you are not going to deceive me. Natural evidence is better than got-up evidence, and I shall prefer to take Mr. Thomas Cridlins's first statement to his second. There are some things better fresh, and testimony I take to be one of those things. Whatever you and Mr. Cridlins may choose to concoct, for the future I shall believe what I please to believe."
And so on till bedtime. Would that I could say we had had it out even then! At midnight we were only in the thick of it; and to acquire renewed vigor for future assaults, Mrs. Sam prudently fell asleep.
But what a time for me! Oh that I could reverse the hand of the clock eight-and-forty hours, or push it on until this trouble had blown over! Plague on that man, whoever he is, that looked so like me! Why was he at the opera? why was he there with a fine woman? Cridlins saw nothing of the Countess Tarascona—only seen her once—and his foolish head jumps to the conclusion it must be the countess. Ass that he is! Why isn't he honestly employed, like other people, instead of idling about on his five thousand a year, philandering and making mischief? He can scarcely count the fingers on his hand, yet he can create a devil of a row between man and wife!
Two o'clock struck. I had fallen into a distempered doze; still it was somewhat soothing. With the waking reflection came back, not quite so excited. After all it might have been worse. I remember reading of a Bishop of Siena who had a sovereign antidote against every attack of despondency.
"When I am disappointed or vexed, or embarrassed or dissatisfied," he said, "I look round upon the world and notice how many hundreds and thousands are worse off than myself, and the result invariably is, that grumbling and vexation take wings and fly away, and contentment and cheerfulness return and nestle in my bosom."
What, thought I, as I lay awake,—what if, instead of this conjugal contretemps, I had been wrongly seized for theft and murder, and unable to prove an alibi? Such cases have been. Such cases have been! Why, they have taken place by scores—are taking place, and will to the end of the chapter. And my imagination vividly portrayed the mental agonies of the innocent convict. Memory ransacked the dusty tomes of history to supply fresh food for meditation, fresh fuel to feed my horror. Does not Pliny cite innumerable instances? Had not the twin brothers of Ephesus just cause to exclaim, each to his unknown counterpart, in the anguish and bitterness of his spirit, "Oh, Dromio, Dromio, wherefore art thou, Dromio?" Does not the "Newgate Calendar" teem with cases of men's lives perjured by false witnesses, or sacrificed to a false tissue of circumstances? Did not Richard Coleman and Clinch and Mackley suffer death for crimes of which they were subsequently proved to be guiltless, simply because each was mistaken for the "right man," who was not, and never is, in the "right place." Was not Hoag tried at New York, in 1804, for bigamy, through a similar misconception? And did not Redman in 1822, and Robinson in 1824, just escape the gallows by a hair's-breadth? And were not these instances enough to scarify any man's imagination, and shiver his every nerve? My "counterfeit presentment" was evidently wandering about somewhere. What sort of a character was he? Did ho belong to the dangerous classes? was he a respectable member of society or an impostor? was he cunning and clever, and capable of swindling? was he cold-blooded and resolute, capable [{710}] of murder? was he passionate and revengeful? was he anything and everything that could lead a man into a violent scrape?
No wonder the perspiration ran off my brow as my brain scudded through the chapter of probabilities and revealed a long gloomy vista of perils. I bethought me of the police. Should I make known that my "counterfeit" was abroad "stalking the world around?" Should I seek the protection of Scotland Yard, and warn them if they heard of a robbery or a murder, or some other villainy or felony committed by a man answering to my description, that I was not the culprit? To be forewarned is to be forearmed; to tell them this might save loss of time, and spare a world of trouble, inconvenience, and annoyance. Beside, was it not exactly what my late friend Richter had done? Ah! by-the-bye, you didn't know Richter—thereby hangs a tale. Richter, poor fellow, is dead now; but there is a moral attached to his life, and we, whose eidola are walking the earth, may as well extract it.