“Well, my lord.—In the Sanctuary at Whitefriars—a place of refuge so unsuitable to a young man of quality and character—I am told a murder was committed.”
“And you believe that I did the deed, I suppose?”
“God forbid, my lord!” said Heriot. “The coroner's inquest hath sat, and it appeared that your lordship, under your assumed name of Grahame, behaved with the utmost bravery.”
“No compliment, I pray you,” said Nigel; “I am only too happy to find, that I did not murder, or am not believed to have murdered, the old man.”
“True, my lord,” said Heriot; “but even in this affair there lacks explanation. Your lordship embarked this morning in a wherry with a female, and, it is said, an immense sum of money, in specie and other valuables—but the woman has not since been heard of.”
“I parted with her at Paul's Wharf,” said Nigel, “where she went ashore with her charge. I gave her a letter to that very man, John Christie.”
“Ay, that is the waterman's story; but John Christie denies that he remembers anything of the matter.”
“I am sorry to hear this,” said the young nobleman; “I hope in Heaven she has not been trepanned, for the treasure she had with her.”
“I hope not, my lord,” replied Heriot; “but men's minds are much disturbed about it. Our national character suffers on all hands. Men remember the fatal case of Lord Sanquhar, hanged for the murder of a fencing-master; and exclaim, they will not have their wives whored, and their property stolen, by the nobility of Scotland.”
“And all this is laid to my door!” said Nigel; “my exculpation is easy.”