Bozzle shook his head again. “I’d rayther not, Mr. Trewillian,” said he. “Indeed I’d rayther not. It’s something very particular.”
“If you take my advice,” said Stanbury, “you will not hear him yourself.”
“That’s your advice, Mr. S.?” asked Mr. Bozzle.
“Yes;—that’s my advice. I’d never have anything to do with such a fellow as you as long as I could help it.”
“I dare say not, Mr. S.; I dare say not. We’re hexpensive, and we’re haccurate;—neither of which is much in your line, Mr. S., if I understand about it rightly.”
“Mr. Bozzle, if you’ve got anything to tell, tell it,” said Trevelyan angrily.
“A third party is so objectionable,” pleaded Bozzle.
“Never mind. That is my affair.”
“It is your affair, Mr. Trewillian. There’s not a doubt of that. The lady is your wife.”
“Damnation!” shouted Trevelyan.
“But the credit, sir,” said Bozzle. “The credit is mine. And here is Mr. S. has been down a interfering with me, and doing no ’varsal good, as I’ll undertake to prove by evidence before the affair is over.”
“The affair is over,” said Stanbury.
“That’s as you think, Mr. S. That’s where your information goes to, Mr. S. Mine goes a little beyond that, Mr. S. I’ve means as you can know nothing about, Mr. S. I’ve irons in the fire, what you’re as ignorant on as the babe as isn’t born.”
“No doubt you have, Mr. Bozzle,” said Stanbury.
“I has. And now if it be that I must speak before a third party, Mr. Trewillian, I’m ready. It ain’t that I’m no ways ashamed. I’ve done my duty, and knows how to do it. And let a counsel be ever so sharp, I never yet was so ’posed but what I could stand up and hold my own. The Colonel, Mr. Trewillian, got—a letter—from your lady—this morning.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Stanbury, sharply.
“Very likely not, Mr. S. It ain’t in my power to say anything whatever about you believing or not believing. But Mr. T.’s lady has wrote the letter; and the Colonel—he has received it. You don’t look after these things, Mr. S. You don’t know the ways of ’em. But it’s my business. The lady has wrote the letter, and the Colonel—why, he has received it.” Trevelyan had become white with rage when Bozzle first mentioned this continued correspondence between his wife and Colonel Osborne. It never occurred to him to doubt the correctness of the policeman’s information, and he regarded Stanbury’s assertion of incredulity as being simply of a piece with his general obstinacy in the matter. At this moment he began to regret that he had called in the assistance of his friend, and that he had not left the affair altogether in the hands of that much more satisfactory, but still more painful, agent, Mr. Bozzle. He had again seated himself, and for a moment or two remained silent on his chair. “It ain’t my fault, Mr. Trewillian,” continued Bozzle, “if this little matter oughtn’t never to have been mentioned before a third party.”
“It is of no moment,” said Trevelyan, in a low voice. “What does it signify who knows it now?”
“Do not believe it, Trevelyan,” said Stanbury.
“Very well, Mr. S. Very well. Just as you like. Don’t believe it. Only it’s true, and it’s my business to find them things out. It’s my business, and I finds ’em out. Mr. Trewillian can do as he likes about it. If it’s right, why, then it is right. It ain’t for me to say nothing about that. But there’s the fact. The lady, she has wrote another letter; and the Colonel—why, he has received it. There ain’t nothing wrong about the post-office. If I was to say what was inside of that billydou—why, then I should be proving what I didn’t know; and when it came to standing up in court, I shouldn’t be able to hold my own. But as for the letter, the lady wrote it, and the Colonel—he received it.”
“That will do, Mr. Bozzle,” said Trevelyan.
“Shall I call again, Mr. Trewillian?”
“No;—yes. I’ll send to you, when I want you. You shall hear from me.”
“I suppose I’d better be keeping my eyes open about the Colonel’s place, Mr. Trewillian?”
“For God’s sake, Trevelyan, do not have anything more to do with this man!”
“That’s all very well for you, Mr. S.,” said Bozzle. “The lady ain’t your wife.”
“Can you imagine anything more disgraceful than all this?” said Stanbury.
“Nothing; nothing; nothing!” answered Trevelyan.
“And I’m to keep stirring, and be on the move?” again suggested Bozzle, who prudently required to be fortified by instructions before he devoted his time and talents even to so agreeable a pursuit as that in which he had been engaged.
“You shall hear from me,” said Trevelyan.
“Very well;—very well. I wish you good day, Mr. Trewillian. Mr. S., yours most obedient. There was one other point, Mr. Trewillian.”
“What point?” asked Trevelyan, angrily.
“If the lady was to join the Colonel—”
“That will do, Mr. Bozzle,” said Trevelyan, again jumping up from his chair. “That will do.” So saying, he opened the door, and Bozzle, with a bow, took his departure. “What on earth am I to do? How am I to save her?” said the wretched husband, appealing to his friend.
Stanbury endeavoured with all his eloquence to prove that this latter piece of information from the spy must be incorrect. If such a letter had been written by Mrs. Trevelyan to Colonel Osborne, it must have been done while he, Stanbury, was staying at the Clock House. This seemed to him to be impossible; but he could hardly explain why it should be impossible. She had written to the man before, and had received him when he came to Nuncombe Putney. Why was it even improbable that she should have written to him again? Nevertheless, Stanbury felt sure that she had
