The varnish of smoothness was all off him by this time. His temper was roused. His pride—even such a man has his pride!—was wounded to the quick. Twice had he matched his wits against a woman's; and twice the woman had baffled him.
He got out, on reaching the hotel for the second time, and privately tried the servants with the offer of money. The result of the experiment satisfied him that they had, in this instance, really and truly no information to sell. After a moment's reflection, he stopped, before leaving the hotel, to ask the way to the parish church. 'The chance may be worth trying,' he thought to himself, as he gave the address to the driver. 'Faster!' he called out, looking first at his watch, and then at his father. 'The minutes are precious this morning; and the old one is beginning to give in.'
It was true. Still capable of hearing and of understanding, Mr. Bashwood was past speaking by this time. He clung with both hands to his son's grudging arm, and let his head fall helplessly on his son's averted shoulder.
The parish church stood back from the street, protected by gates and railings, and surrounded by a space of open ground. Shaking off his father's hold, Bashwood the younger made straight for the vestry. The clerk, putting away the books, and the clerk's assistant, hanging up a surplice, were the only persons in the room when he entered it and asked leave to look at the marriage register for the day.
The clerk gravely opened the book, and stood aside from the desk on which it lay.
The day's register comprised three marriages solemnized that morning; and the first two signatures on the page were 'Allan Armadale' and 'Lydia Gwilt!'
Even the spy—ignorant as he was of the truth, unsuspicious as he was of the terrible future consequences to which the act of that morning might lead—even the spy started, when his eye first fell on the page. It was done! Come what might of it, it was done now. There, in black and white, was the registered evidence of the marriage, which was at once a truth in itself, and a lie in the conclusion to which it led! There—through the fatal similarity in the names—there, in Midwinter's own signature, was the proof to persuade everybody that, not Midwinter, but Allan, was the husband of Miss Gwilt!
Bashwood the younger closed the book, and returned it to the clerk. He descended the vestry steps, with his hands thrust doggedly into his pockets, and with a serious shock inflicted on his professional self-esteem.
The beadle met him under the church wall. He considered for a moment whether it was worth while to spend a shilling in questioning the man, and decided in the affirmative. If they could be traced and overtaken, there might be a chance of seeing the color of Mr. Armadale's money even yet.
'How long is it,' he asked, 'since the first couple married here this morning left the church?'
'About an hour,' said the beadle.
'How did they go away?'
The beadle deferred answering that second question until he had first pocketed his fee.
'You won't trace them from here, sir,' he said, when he had got his shilling. 'They went away on foot.'
'And that is all you know about it?'
'That, sir, is all I know about it.'
Left by himself, even the Detective of the Private Inquiry Office paused for a moment before he returned to his father at the gate. He was roused from his hesitation by the sudden appearance, within the church inclosure, of the driver of the cab.
'I'm afraid the old gentleman is going to be taken ill, sir,' said the man.
Bashwood the younger frowned angrily, and walked back to the cab. As he opened the door and looked in, his father leaned forward and confronted him, with lips that moved speechlessly, and with a white stillness over all the rest of his face.
'She's done us,' said the spy. 'They were married here this morning.'
The old man's body swayed for a moment from one side to the other. The instant after, his eyes closed and his head fell forward toward the front seat of the cab. 'Drive to the hospital!' cried his son. 'He's in a fit. This is what comes of putting myself out of my way to please my father,' he muttered, sullenly raising Mr. Bashwood's head, and loosening his cravat. 'A nice morning's work. Upon my soul, a nice morning's work!'
The hospital was near, and the house surgeon was at his post.
'Will he come out of it?' asked Bashwood the younger, roughly.
'Who are
'I am his son.'
'I shouldn't have thought it,' rejoined the surgeon, taking the restoratives that were handed to him by the nurse, and turning from the son to the father with an air of relief which he was at no pains to conceal. 'Yes,' he added, after a minute or two; 'your father will come out of it this time.'
'When can he be moved away from here?'
'He can be moved from the hospital in an hour or two.'
The spy laid a card on the table. 'I'll come back for him or send for him,' he said. 'I suppose I can go now, if I leave my name and address?' With those words, he put on his hat, and walked out.
'He's a brute!' said the nurse.
'No,' said the surgeon, quietly. 'He's a man.'
* * * * * * *
Between nine and ten o'clock that night, Mr. Bashwood awoke in his bed at the inn in the Borough. He had slept for some hours since he had been brought back from the hospital; and his mind and body were now slowly recovering together.
