discovered that he was watched, and became much more cautious, but not sufficiently so to attain his own ends. He did not really know who was observing him. But he did know that his papers were examined, and at times borrowed, and he was fully aware that none of the ordinary places of concealment which his own lodging gave him were of much use. He was a bold man, and he adopted a bold course.”
“Yes?”
“The safe possession of this volume of letters was everything to him, for he intended to obtain a very large sum for them, and retire to England; and he informed me that he meant to become an actor.”
“That is true; and I, who am a manager, was asked by the miscreant to bring him upon the boards.”
“For the boards we shall substitute the scaffold, I doubt not,” said Silvain, coolly. “He had, Monsieur, become intimately acquainted with the interior of the house in which he has committed this frightful crime. I need not remind you how it happened that he had the means of acquiring that knowledge—”
“I understand.”
“But it was intimate and complete. And having this precious volume of evidence to conceal, he placed it in the very house of the man whom he had wronged, and in the very room in which the women whom he had so cruelly injured had been in the habit of spending their hours. That was very brutal, very atrocious.”
The nature of Silvain spoke out frankly. He felt that the circumstance he was mentioning aggravated the crimes of Adair.
“Yes, Monsieur, there was a secret recess at the bottom of an almost secret well in a closet in that chamber, and there did Adair deposit his cursed proofs; there, where the dresses of the poor ladies must have touched within a few inches of his treacherous book. And, Monsieur, it was to fetch this book, a task that he would entrust to no other hand, that Adair came back this day to Versailles.”
“Ha! To fetch this book of letters. And poor Urquhart found him in the house, and has been killed in endeavouring to arrest him?”
“How it occurred,” said Silvain, in a tone that implied his desire not to be needlessly explicit, “how it occurred that M. Urquhart became aware of the intentions of Adair will no doubt appear when Adair is before the tribunal of justice. It is enough that they met in the house, and that Adair has bought his escape at the price of a crime.”
“Taking the letters with him?”
“No, Monsieur.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because, Monsieur, the letters had been removed from the place of deposit before Adair entered the house.”
“By whom?”
“By a trustworthy person, Monsieur.”
“Who retains them, of course,” said Aventayle, instantly suspecting that a new bargain for the evidence was about to be offered. “Well?”
“You are doing an injustice to one who never injured you, Monsieur,” said Silvain, reproachfully. “The secret that the letters were hidden in the well-hole became known to the young person whom I am about to marry. Unhappily she did not discover it in time to make the knowledge useful, but at least she was in time to prevent Adair from gaining a great triumph. She ventured into the house, and secured the letters.”
“Well done. I beg her pardon for having wronged her in thought. Then Adair must have searched in vain for them, and perhaps, in his rage at the loss, attacked the unhappy man who has died by his hand.”
“It may be so, Monsieur. I may believe that M. Urquhart entered the fatal house, intending vengeance upon Adair. But this may be known hereafter. The letters—”
“Yes, the letters, where are they?”
“They are in the hands of Madame Lygon.”
“What!” exclaimed Aventayle. “Mrs. Lygon has got all the evidence against her—has got delivered to her without fee or reward what all the police in Paris did not seem likely to get at all? That is a bit of good news in the midst of our trouble.”
“There will be neither fee nor reward, Monsieur, given or expected. The poor are not permitted many luxuries, but sometimes they may be allowed the luxury of doing good for nothing.”
Aventayle had heard that virtuous sentiment in many a melodrama, but it was uttered by Silvain with so much propriety that it was impossible to regard it with disrespect. And the event of the hour had scared away all disposition to levity, at least in a mind like that of Aventayle. A harder man might have rallied sooner.
“And this is what I am to tell Mr. Hawkesley?”
“This is what I was desired to say.”
“Out of evil—and it is dreadful evil—comes good,” said Aventayle. “These letters arrive at an hour when we had no right to expect good fortune.”
“Whether the recovery of the letters is good fortune or not,” said Silvain, gravely, “others have more right to form an opinion than myself. I did not gather, Monsieur, from what has been said to me, that any great gain would arise to the lady who now has them, but it is something to have rescued them from the clutches of Adair, who would have sold them at a high price.”
“He, at least, implied that they were invaluable to her,” said Aventayle. “But this is, as you say, for others to decide. Have you more to say to me?—I should return to poor Hawkesley.”
“You have not asked my name, Monsieur.”
“I have not. I have been too much shocked to remember anything.”
“Mr. Hawkesley may not know it, but it is well known to Madame Lygon. My name is Silvain, my shop any one in Versailles will show your friend.”
“I shall not forget it.”
CHAPTER LXXXXII.
