The Way We Live Now, Anthony Trollope [good story books to read .txt] 📗

meet his father and the old family lawyer. Therefore Dolly had attended, at great personal inconvenience to himself. “By George, it’s hardly worth having if one is to take all this trouble about it,” Dolly had said to Lord Grasslough, with whom he had fraternised since the quarrel with Nidderdale. Dolly entered the room last, and at that time neither Mr. Longestaffe nor Mr. Bideawhile had touched the drawer, or even the table, in which the letter had been deposited.

“Now, Mr. Longestaffe,” said Mr. Bideawhile, “perhaps you will show us where you think you put the letter.”

“I don’t think at all,” said he. “Since the matter has been discussed the whole thing has come back upon my memory.”

“I never signed it,” said Dolly, standing with his hands in his pockets and interrupting his father.

“Nobody says you did, sir,” rejoined the father with an angry voice. “If you will condescend to listen we may perhaps arrive at the truth.”

“But somebody has said that I did. I’ve been told that Mr. Bideawhile says so.”

“No, Mr. Longestaffe; no. We have never said so. We have only said that we had no reason for supposing the letter to be other than genuine. We have never gone beyond that.”

“Nothing on earth would have made me sign it,” said Dolly. “Why should I have given my property up before I got my money? I never heard such a thing in my life.”

The father looked up at the lawyer and shook his head, testifying as to the hopelessness of his son’s obstinacy. “Now, Mr. Longestaffe,” continued the lawyer, “let us see where you put the letter.”

Then the father very slowly, and with much dignity of deportment, opened the drawer⁠—the second drawer from the top, and took from it a bundle of papers very carefully folded and docketed. “There,” said he, “the letter was not placed in the envelope but on the top of it, and the two were the two first documents in the bundle.” He went on to say that as far as he knew no other paper had been taken away. He was quite certain that he had left the drawer locked. He was very particular in regard to that particular drawer, and he remembered that about this time Mr. Melmotte had been in the room with him when he had opened it, and⁠—as he was certain⁠—had locked it again. At that special time there had been, he said, considerable intimacy between him and Melmotte. It was then that Mr. Melmotte had offered him a seat at the Board of the Mexican railway.

“Of course he picked the lock, and stole the letter,” said Dolly. “It’s as plain as a pikestaff. It’s clear enough to hang any man.”

“I am afraid that it falls short of evidence, however strong and just may be the suspicion induced,” said the lawyer. “Your father for a time was not quite certain about the letter.”

“He thought that I had signed it,” said Dolly.

“I am quite certain now,” rejoined the father angrily. “A man has to collect his memory before he can be sure of anything.”

“I am thinking you know how it would go to a jury.”

“What I want to know is how we are to get the money,” said Dolly. “I should like to see him hung⁠—of course; but I’d sooner have the money. Squercum says⁠—”

“Adolphus, we don’t want to know here what Mr. Squercum says.”

“I don’t know why what Mr. Squercum says shouldn’t be as good as what Mr. Bideawhile says. Of course Squercum doesn’t sound very aristocratic.”

“Quite as much so as Bideawhile, no doubt,” said the lawyer laughing.

“No; Squercum isn’t aristocratic, and Fetter Lane is a good deal lower than Lincoln’s Inn. Nevertheless Squercum may know what he’s about. It was Squercum who was first down upon Melmotte in this matter, and if it wasn’t for Squercum we shouldn’t know as much about it as we do at present.” Squercum’s name was odious to the elder Longestaffe. He believed, probably without much reason, that all his family troubles came to him from Squercum, thinking that if his son would have left his affairs in the hands of the old Slows and the old Bideawhiles, money would never have been scarce with him, and that he would not have made this terrible blunder about the Pickering property. And the sound of Squercum, as his son knew, was horrid to his ears. He hummed and hawed, and fumed and fretted about the room, shaking his head and frowning. His son looked at him as though quite astonished at his displeasure. “There’s nothing more to be done here, sir, I suppose,” said Dolly putting on his hat.

“Nothing more,” said Mr. Bideawhile. “It may be that I shall have to instruct counsel, and I thought it well that I should see in the presence of both of you exactly how the thing stood. You speak so positively, Mr. Longestaffe, that there can be no doubt?”

“There is no doubt.”

“And now perhaps you had better lock the drawer in our presence. Stop a moment⁠—I might as well see whether there is any sign of violence having been used.” So saying Mr. Bideawhile knelt down in front of the table and began to examine the lock. This he did very carefully and satisfied himself that there was “no sign of violence.” “Whoever has done it, did it very well,” said Bideawhile.

“Of course Melmotte did it,” said Dolly Longestaffe standing immediately over Bideawhile’s shoulder.

At that moment there was a knock at the door⁠—a very distinct, and, we may say, a formal knock. There are those who knock and immediately enter without waiting for the sanction asked. Had he who knocked done so on this occasion Mr. Bideawhile would have been found still on his knees, with his nose down to the level of the keyhole. But the intruder did not intrude rapidly, and the lawyer jumped on to his feet, almost upsetting Dolly with the effort. There was a pause, during which Mr. Bideawhile moved away from the table⁠—as he might have done had he been picking a lock;⁠—and then Mr. Longestaffe bade the stranger