Chapter XXX: Burgoyne Faces the Music

Captain Ralph Burgoyne, installed at the _Hôtel Bristol_, in Paris, awaited young Richard Shrewsbury’s arrival with about as much pleasure as a dentist’s patient, sitting in a luxuriously-appointed reception-room awaits the summons to that other room in which the practical part of the business is transacted. He had been in some tight places in his life, he said to himself, but never in a hole which was so absolutely detestable to all his tastes and ideas as this was. He had been in action more than once; he had known the tortures of hunger in one continent and the agonies of thirst in another; he was not quite sure whether he would not have undergone battle, thirst and hunger again rather than tell young Dick Shrewsbury what he had to tell him. For Burgoyne knew that the lad believed in Carsdale and in Mrs. Walsingham, and like all simple and honest men, he hated to be obliged to prove to a very young man that the pillars on which the edifice of his trust had rested were of uncommonly rotten clay. That revelation, that discovery, might, he felt, sour and embitter the youngster for life. But--it had to be done.

It was all the harder to do because of Richard’s high spirits. It was late at night when he arrived, but nothing would content him but to drag Burgoyne out in order to get a glimpse of this wonderful Paris at once, especially at midnight. He kept Burgoyne out of bed until an unholy hour; even then, when they had got to their rooms, he began to be inquisitive about Burgoyne’s reasons for fetching him over.

“Business, of course,” he said.

“Well, of course, I don’t know anything about business, but whatever it is, depend on me, old chap. Carsdale said it must be business--you’d a lot better have had Carsdale here, Burgoyne. But what is it, anyway? Your company, I expect.”

Burgoyne succeeded in producing a prodigious yawn.

“Oh, to-morrow!” he said. “Time enough to-morrow--I’m half asleep.”

But he slept little when he got to his bed and his countenance was melancholy when he met Richard at breakfast. The younger man rallied his senior on it, and Burgoyne made an excuse about his liver. The truth was that he was fighting down an inclination to put off the evil moment; as he looked at the boy’s young and eager face he felt as if he were going to stab him in the back. And yet, Heaven knew, he was only anxious, desperately anxious, to save him from a fate at the mere thought of which he himself shuddered.

“Hang it all, pull yourself together, man!” he said, addressing himself, and cursing his own cowardice. “The thing’s got to be done, and it’s best to do it at once.”

He carefully engineered his charge to the Bois du Boulogne when they went out after breakfast, and got him to himself on a seat in a quiet corner. The air was full of summer, and the trees were green, and there was water splashing like diamond sprays in the sunlight, and there were children and their nursemaids about, and everything was gay and pleasant, and Burgoyne miserably contrasted it with the sordid story which it was laid upon him to unfold. And suddenly, after he had spent some silent moments in tracing patterns upon the gravel at his feet, he burst into his subject, violently and awkwardly.

“I say, Shrewsbury!” he said. “About this--this business that I asked you to come over and see me about, you know.”

“Yes?” answered Richard.

“I--you see, it wasn’t about my business that I wanted to speak to you,” said Burgoyne. “It was about--yours.”

Richard turned from the contemplation of a nursemaid, who was flirting with a portly policeman, to stare at his companion in astonishment.

“Mine?” he said.

“Yes, by Jove, yours!” replied Burgoyne. “I--look here, youngster, you look on me as a friend, don’t you? You trust me, eh?”

Richard stared more than ever. Then, with a sudden impulse, he stretched out a hand and laid it on the elder man’s arm.

“Dear old chap!” he said. “I look on you as--why, as a sort of second father. Of course!”

“I’m deuced glad to hear it, boy,” said Burgoyne, fervently. “Deuced glad! It--it makes it come easier, what I’ve got to say. Got to say, you understand, Dick? I don’t want to say it--hate to say it, by Gad!--but I’ve got to.”

Richard began to have an idea that something as unpleasant as it seemed to be important was in the air.

“What is it, Burgoyne?” he asked quietly.

“It--it’s a damned nasty thing to have to talk about, sir,” said Burgoyne, viciously assaulting the gravel with his walking-cane. “I wish I could talk of something else. It’s about--about Mrs. Walsingham.”

Richard stiffened.

“What about Mrs. Walsingham?” he asked. “Remember, I’m engaged to be married to her.”

“I do remember it, sir, and that’s what makes things so confounded awkward, and--and ugly,” said Burgoyne. “It’s only because I’m--fond of you, and anxious about you, and all that, don’t you know, that I’m speaking to you. You see, I know what you don’t know. It’s--it’s about that damned diamond necklace, which I wish to Heaven I’d never seen.”

Richard was staring at a fountain which was throwing up sprays of liquid fire amongst the trees in front of them. He knew by that time that Burgoyne had some revelation to make to him; he guessed from his manner and his reluctance that it was something unpleasant.

“You’d better tell me straight out what all this is,” he said.

“Then I’ll ask you to understand that every word I’m going to say to you is the truth, lad,” said Burgoyne, emphatically. “Not what I believe to be the truth, but the absolute, provable truth. Every word that I say to you can be substantiated. You know that I left my diamond necklace in pledge with Barclay Leverton.”

“Yes,” replied Richard.

“You were with me when I redeemed it--or thought I did--from Leverton’s executors--his daughter and his solicitor?”

“I was.”

“What I got there wasn’t my necklace at all,” said Burgoyne. “It was a paste imitation. I found that out the morning I went with you to Levanter’s, in Bond Street, to buy that ring. Or, rather, Levanter found it out. Paste, sir! I didn’t say a word to you, but I had some suspicion, and I began to make inquiries. My necklace, Dick, had been stolen while it was in Barclay Leverton’s possession, though he knew nothing about it. And--take it steady, my boy, hard though it is!--it was stolen by Mrs. Walsingham. That’s the absolute truth--truth!”

Richard made no answer. He, too, leaned forward and began to trace unmeaning patterns in the gravel. And Burgoyne, scarcely daring to look at him, went on hurriedly.

“The real necklace, sir, my necklace, was stolen by Mrs. Walsingham from Barclay Leverton’s safe,” he continued. “She pawned it at once. She got it back after I returned home; she had it in her possession all the time I had the paste thing--which she got made--at Levanter’s. What I sold you was the paste thing, and I knew it at the time. Your cheque is here, in my pocket-book--see, here it is, and there you are--you can tear it up, or keep it, or do what you like with it. It was by selling you that paste affair that we found out the truth, or, rather, established it.”

“‘We’?” said Richard. “Whom do you mean by ‘we’?”

“Blair and myself. We laid the trap--we knew, really, by then, but for your sake, we wanted to make absolutely certain,” replied Burgoyne. “I’ll tell you all the details--you’ll see, then, youngster, that you’re getting the truth, ugly as it is. And I hope I shall never be mixed up in such a dirty business in my life again, sir, never!”

Richard sat in stony silence while Burgoyne told him the whole story. He knew Burgoyne: he knew he was hearing the truth. And he was conscious, all the time that he listened, of a certain feeling of restored freedom. He had often realized, in moments when he had time to think calmly, that he had asked Mrs. Walsingham to marry him through sheer impulse, and, in spite of a naturally loyal disposition, he had been tempted to ask himself if he would have made her that offer in a calmer mood. Now, he knew that he would never marry her, and he asked himself whether he was glad or sorry to know it.

“There, that’s all, and now I’ve done my duty!” said Burgoyne, when he had made an end. “Gad, sir, it’s the most unpleasant thing I’ve ever done in my life--but, my lad, it’s what your father would have had me do, don’t you know.”

Richard laid his hand on Burgoyne’s arm and pressed it.

“Thank you, Burgoyne,” he said. “I know you. Now, why didn’t you tell me all this in London? Why get me over here?”

“We thought it best, Blair and I,” answered Burgoyne. “We thought you’d better be clear of things for a day or two, while Blair spoke to--her.”

“Ah!” said Richard. “So Blair is going to speak to--her?”

“He is, sir,” said Burgoyne. “My boy, don’t you see, you must be got out of the hands of those two. You’ve taken this well--you’re a good lad--and you must hear me out. You must have no more to do with this woman, or with Carsdale.”

“Carsdale?” exclaimed Richard. “Carsdale!”

Burgoyne was quick to note the surprise in the lad’s tones; he was somehow conscious of a shrewd suspicion that Richard would feel it more to hear of Carsdale’s treachery than of the woman’s.

“Yes,” he said. “I know you’ve a great belief in Carsdale. But it’s no use denying it, Dick, the man has a bad reputation. You don’t know all that I know. To keep up any business relations with him is to be cheated in the end--perhaps ruined. Indeed, my boy, you don’t know!”

Richard stood up; a far-away look came into his eyes, and his lip curled.

“It seems to me,” he said, slowly and bitterly, “it seems to me, Burgoyne, that I don’t know anything. I have had one blow this morning--now I get another. I have trusted in Carsdale fully. He was kind and obliging to me when I came, a stranger, and my bankers complimented me on the excellent investments he made for me. I’ve never found him untrustworthy in anything.”

Burgoyne groaned and shook his head.

“My dear Dick!” he said. “My dear boy! I know how beastly it is to hear these things. But I’m telling you the truth--I’ve wormed things out for your sake. Carsdale is a deep dog--a crafty dog, sir. It has never struck you that from every one of the tradesmen he took you to he would get a very handsome commission; it has never occurred to you that it was his policy at first to make those investments so as to establish confidence. But now, tell me, Dick, as you’d tell your father--have you ever entrusted money to him to do as he liked with?”

“Yes--ten thousand pounds,” replied Richard promptly.

“You’ll never see it again, my lad, you’ll never see it again!” exclaimed Burgoyne. “Tell me further, since we’re at it--have you ever signed any papers for him that you didn’t read?”

“I signed some papers yesterday afternoon,” answered Richard. “I didn’t read them.”

“Oh, my God!” said Burgoyne. “I wish I’d spoken sooner. Boy, the man’s a swindler! He defrauded Leverton out of a considerable sum of money--Frances Leverton has found it out, she’s going to hold it over him--hold the threat of prosecution over him, I mean--for your sake.”

Richard flushed.

“For my sake?” he said. “Miss Leverton?”

“Winch is tackling him to-day on it,” answered Burgoyne. “It’s the only hold we have on him. If he doesn’t give up all connection with you, release everything he has of yours, they’ll prosecute him on the other matter. It was the only way, lad. If your friends don’t save you from the fellow, you’ll be ruined--ruined! I got you over here to keep you out of the way while--while Blair and Miss Leverton did what they could with the woman and him. What is it, boy?”

Richard was sternly motioning him to rise.

“Come on, Burgoyne,” he said. “I’m off back to London. You all mean well--kindly--all of you. But I’ll fight for myself, though I won’t refuse the help of any of you. You meant well, old chap, but oh, why didn’t you tell me of this on the spot? Come on--let’s be off!”

But Burgoyne had a business appointment for the afternoon which he was bound to keep, and it was not until late in the evening that they could leave Paris. Richard fumed and fretted at the delay, and was moody and taciturn throughout the journey. It was early morning when they reached Charing Cross and turned into the hotel for breakfast. And there Burgoyne, taking up a morning newspaper, saw the first brief news of what had happened on the previous evening at Mrs. Walsingham’s flat.