Mr. Gibson sent word—directly to Mr. Orme, that is—that he would be pleased to call upon him at his chambers, an early date was arranged, and the two men were soon speaking easily with one another. Mr. Orme was gratified to discover that Mr. Gibson was unaffected and easy in his manners, not at all as he had pictured.
“You must allow me, sir, to first express my admiration for your writings. I believe I have never read any novel so stimulating, so thought-provoking, as Steam & Sagacity.”
“You honour me, sir. I see from your bookcases that you are an extensive reader—but I suppose your novels are kept in your study at home. Here, are your books relating to your profession.” Mr. Gibson, in the manner of all book-lovers, could hardly restrain himself from tilting his head sideways to examine the titles printed on the spines.
“Yes, my private library is at home, but I do not scruple to affirm that I read and enjoy novels. And I must take leave to say the characters who inhabit your works are entirely engrossing and unforgettable. My friends and I unite in agreeing you have captured them from life. Your heroine, Flora, is the finest creature who has ever appeared in print, I believe. Her quiet strength of character! The hardships she endured so nobly!”
Mr. Gibson nodded. “And on that account, some of my critics have said that Flora is too perfect an example of womanhood, and so my portrait cannot have been drawn from life. Sir,” he added, “you could not have chosen a more engrossing topic to me, personally, than praise of my writing—but in respect of the many demands of your profession, I shall come to the point of the matter. I would be most obliged if you could confirm the information I received from my friend Commander Price?”
With a clarity and precision which further raised his new acquaintance in Mr. Gibson’s estimation, Mr. Orme recounted his conversation on the street with the pathetic Walker, and then presented the correspondence he received from the Under-secretary to Lord Sidmouth. “It is evident Mr. Hobhouse was much exasperated and vexed by my enquiry.”
Sir, it read in part.
This is not the first application of its kind which has been addressed to the Secretary of State. Walker was one of the murderers of Mr. Horsfall, & deserved a Halter just as much as his Colleagues. But he had the good fortune to turn King’s Evidence, by which he saved his Neck. Thus the Promise held out to him by the Crown—that is a full pardon— has been fulfilled.
Gibson looked up. “So this fellow says the only reward promised was a pardon, and not two thousand pounds?”
“Promised by the government, that is,” said Mr. Orme, gesturing to the letter, and Mr. Gibson resumed his perusal of it:
The pecuniary Reward was promised not by Government, but by an Anti-Luddite Committee which then existed: and it is to them, & not the Secretary of State, that he must look for payment; But if I recollect rightly, Walker is not entitled to the Reward, because his Information was not given until after he & his fellow-murderers were apprehended upon other Evidence.
“No doubt Mr. Walker was tossed a sovereign or two, to help him escape the wrath of his former friends. When did you last see Walker, Mr. Orme?”
“Hmm, about a year ago, I think. He returned to my office, twice or three times, begging me to intervene for him, even after I told him the matter was closed. I finally gave him ten pounds on condition that he never call upon me again. There is nothing more to be done for the man. In that final interview, he told me, with some anger and despair, that he knew how to get money from the government, which was, by telling them what they wanted to hear.”
“That is, he intends to continue his career as an informer, and betray any of his fellows who think of opposing the government?”
“That is what I understood him to mean. However, he could not do so in his old haunts, for he is notorious there.”
“I am indebted to you, Mr. Orme, for sharing this information with me. This is not something I could have obtained whilst I was a resident of Southwark Prison—the authorities would not have deigned to answer me.”
“I should fancy not!” Mr. Orme laughed. “And of course, should any further intelligence of Walker arise, I shall be prompt in sending it to you.”
“I am obliged to you, sir, but my question is answered with this letter. My initial supposition was incorrect, as regards Walker,” said Gibson. “Walker was a turncoat, but not a spy—although it appears he now has aspirations to be one.”
The gentlemen parted with mutual expressions of esteem. Mr. Orme nearly, very nearly, invited Mr. Gibson to dinner, but thought it might be presumptuous in him to invite so distinguished a man on so slight an acquaintance. Perhaps a different occasion would be more appropriate. And Mr. Gibson nearly, very nearly, hinted he might do himself the honour of calling on Mrs. Orme, but he could not imagine himself accepting Mrs. Orme’s hospitality, without feeling like a spy himself. He wanted to meet her only to find fault. She had once been Maria Bertram, and he knew enough of Fanny’s childhood to know Maria had been careless and sometimes cruel in her treatment of her cousin.
* * * * * * *
Mr.
