Chapter LI

Seager, fancying himself dogged at the railway terminus on the day of his flight from London, took his ticket for the station beyond that where he intended to alight, to avoid detection. At Frewenham he left the train and repaired to an inn, a second-rate one, which he had selected as a less dangerous abode than the principal hotel.

Keeping up his disguise, he spent two whole days (precious days to him) in walking about Larches for an opportunity of speaking to Lady Lee. Fane, or Mr Payne, or Fillett, were for ever there, one or other of them, and it might be fatal to his plans for any of them to discover him. He read in the papers, with a good deal of amusement, the account of the late trial, and was particularly diverted with the paragraph at the close which announced that the prisoners had forfeited their bail, and were supposed to be at large on the Continent. On the third day, however, he saw the coast clear, and taking off his wig and false mustache behind a hedge, he buttoned his greatcoat across the splendour beneath it, and, looking like himself, walked boldly up to the cottage and rang the bell.

“Give that to Lady Lee,” he said to the servant who opened the door, “and say I wait for an answer.”

When Lady Lee opened the note, she read a request from Mr Seager “to grant him a short interview, on a subject _of the last importance_,” (these words being underlined.)

“Something about the affairs of the wretched Colonel, I suppose,” she said to herself; “shall I admit him? Surely Bagot has forfeited all right to my assistance.” Her eye fell on Julius, and her heart softened. After all, Bagot had done her no irreparable injury. “Take the child away,” she said, “and then admit the person who waits.”

Mr Seager, in full possession of all his brazen assurance, was ushered in. Lady Lee’s look was quite composed, and there was nothing like grief in her aspect. “She’s got over the boy’s loss pretty quickly,” thought Seager.

“Time is precious, my lady,” he said, when he had seated himself; “you’ll excuse me if I come at once to the point, and cut the matter short.”

“As short as you please, sir,” said Lady Lee.

This rather put him out, but he recovered himself as he went on.

“Perhaps, when you know what I came about, I shall be more welcome. What if I know of something which nearly concerns you, and which you would give much to hear?”

Lady Lee sat upright on the sofa, and her face assumed a look of anxiety. “What can it be?” she said to herself; and then aloud, “Go on, sir.”

“I must explain that I am peculiarly situated just now, my lady--very peculiarly indeed. I’m leaving the country, and my resources are running very low. This must be my excuse for attaching a condition to the revealing of this secret;--in fact, I am compelled to make a matter of business of it. You can command a good sum, I dare say, such as would be a vast thing to me, without any inconvenience to yourself.”

“But the nature of your information, sir?--the nature of it?” said Lady Lee, her curiosity excited to an extreme degree.

“You see,” said Seager, “you may not have the sum I should require in the house; but I’ll take your note of hand, or I.O.U. I know you’d be honourable, my lady.”

“The nature of it?” repeated Lady Lee, anxiously.

“Hem,” said Mr Seager, clearing his throat, and muttering to himself. “It does look rather heartless, but it can’t be helped. In a word, you had a son who passes for dead--what if I could give tidings of him?”

Lady Lee gave a sigh of relief, and fell back on the sofa. She saw his error. Mr Seager took it for a sign of agitation, and went on.

“You’ll say, of course, Prove your words? Very well; do you know this handwriting?” He rose, and held a letter before her eyes.

“Perfectly,” said Lady Lee; “it is Colonel Lee’s.”

“Well, read a line or two of it,” said Seager, opening it so that one paragraph was visible.

She read--“Hester, we shall never meet again, and I will repair an injury I have done you. Your boy is not dead, he----”

“There,” said Mr Seager, refolding the letter, “that will satisfy you of my good faith. Now, if I give this, containing full information of your son’s whereabouts, what will you give?”

“But,” said Lady Lee, “have you any right to withhold such information?”

“That’s not the question,” said Seager; “we won’t talk about rights. I’ve no time for humbug. In a word, name your figure, or else I put the letter in my pocket, and in six hours I shall be in France. Speak out, and be liberal!”

At this moment there was a fumbling at the handle of the door.

“Send ’em away,” said Mr Seager; “this matter must be between you and me.”

Lady Lee knew who the intruder was, and going to the door opened it, and admitted Julius.

Mr Seager fell a pace back, crying out, “My God! you’ve found him, then.”

Lady Lee led Julius to the sofa with something of a smile on her face, and seated him on her lap.

“Well, sir,” she said to Seager, “you forgot to mention the price you set upon a mother’s feelings.”

“Damnation!” muttered Seager; “it’s no go. I’ll be off. Shall I try to get some money out of her for Lee? No, she wouldn’t trust me with it now, and time’s precious. My secret is forestalled,” he said aloud, with a brazen grin. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have made a bargain for it. But you needn’t say you have seen me, my lady--promise you won’t,” he added. “There’s been no harm done, you know.”

Lady Lee rose and rang the bell. Seager made off towards the door, opened it, and turned round. “Don’t mention you saw me,” he repeated; “’twill do no good.”

He was hurrying off, cursing his ill luck, and resolving to continue his flight instantly, when he ran full tilt, in the passage, against the police officer whom he had evaded at the London station. His delay in the attempt to extort money from Lady Lee had been fatal to his plan of escape. The policeman addressed him by name, and told him he was his prisoner. Seager started back, with an exclamation, followed by a muttered curse.

“Hush!” he said, “don’t speak loud. How did you find me?”

“Got on your scent last night, sir,” said the policeman, “and have been dodging you all the morning. I saw you take off your wig behind the hedge, and knew you in a minute.”

Again Seager began a string of curses in a low tone. Presently he drew forth a pocket-book. “Come,” he said, “you’ll get nothing by my capture--what shall we say, now, for letting me slip? Nobody need ever know you found me.”

The policeman smiled as he put the offered notes aside.

“Stuff!” said Seager. “Every man has his price. Why shouldn’t you turn a penny when you can?”

He was still pressing his point, and the officer was getting impatient, when the front door near which they stood opened, and Fane entered from the garden.

“What! Seager!” he cried, on seeing that gentleman--“the very man I want above all others. What brought you here! and who is this?” he asked, looking at the policeman.

A short explanation from the latter put Fane in possession of the facts.

“Be so good as to bring your prisoner in here,” said Fane, opening the door of a small room. “I won’t detain you long, and you cannot object to the delay, as it may result in a fresh charge against Mr Seager.”

Seager affected to laugh at this, but felt rather alarmed, nevertheless. His capture had upset all his calculations, and momentarily shaken his habitual confidence in himself.

“Please to attend to this conversation,” Fane said to the police officer. “In the first place, I must tell you, Mr Seager, that your former victim, my cousin Langley Levitt, is now in Frewenham, and that Mr Payne is now in London, investigating the circumstances of the forgery of a certain check on his bank.”

Seager turned pale. “Well,” he said, “what then?”

“That check you presented for payment,” said Fane.

“Ay,” said Seager; “but that doesn’t prove I forged it, or knew it was forged. Can you prove that?”

“I think we can. A person was present when Langley gave it you, and the amount of it was then known. I give you credit for cleverness in your calculations. You knew Langley was resolved to disappear from his family and the world--you calculated that when the forgery should be discovered the matter would be hushed up--and that, while Langley passed as the forger, the fraud would never be known. But now that he has reappeared, and is in communication with his friends, the matter must come to light.”

Mr Seager sullenly shrugged his shoulders. “Well,” said he, “I’m in a hole, and no mistake. I can’t show play for it, since this gentleman has bagged me” (looking at the policeman). “You must take your own course. But,” he added in a low tone, intended exclusively for Fane’s ear, “I can’t understand your interest in detecting me. Haven’t you taken Levitt’s place with your uncle?”

Fane nodded.

“And if Levitt is restored to favour, you will lose by it?”

“In a worldly point of view, yes,” returned Fane.

“Well, then,” said Mr Seager, “your line is plain enough. You can say you believe (of course, with great regret), but still, you’re compelled to believe, that your cousin was the forger. Your uncle takes your word for it, and drops the matter--Langley goes to the devil--and you remain sole favourite and heir, don’t you see? So much for that,” whispered Mr Seager, with the air of a man who has put his case incontrovertibly.

Fane smiled as he looked steadily at Seager. “You are a clever rascal, certainly,” he said, “in a small way. You are well acquainted with your own side of human nature, but beyond that you’re in the dark. Dismissing, then, this new and practical view of the case, allow me to offer a suggestion. Our principal object, of course, is justice to Langley rather than revenge on you. A prosecution, though it would probably lead to your conviction, especially now that your character is blasted, would require time, while your confession would at once answer the purpose.”

“But what should I get by confessing?” asked Seager.

“Nothing,” said Fane. “A bribe would impair the value of your admissions. But I promise you this, that if you confess, I will use what interest I possess to stop all proceedings against you on account of the forgery. Now,” said he, setting writing materials before him, “take your choice. Silence and prosecution, or confession and impunity.”

Mr Seager pondered for a minute; but he was too shrewd not to see where his advantage lay. He had nothing to lose by confessing--his character was already gone, and could scarcely suffer farther, while a conviction for the forgery might entail transportation. After a very short interval of consideration, he took up a pen. “I’m ready,” he said; “I’ll do it in the penitent style if you like. Prickings of conscience, desire to render tardy reparation, and all that.”

“No,” said Fane, “it shall be simple and genuine; allow me to dictate it.”

This he accordingly did, setting forth--first, that the confession was quite voluntary, and, secondly, admitting the forgery and the circumstances that led to its commission. Seager signed this, and the sergeant and Fane witnessed it, and the latter now desired the officer to remove his prisoner. Mr Seager nodded to Fane, and winked facetiously as he left the room, made a face at the policeman, who preceded him out, and then departed to undergo his sentence.