I go up to London on Friday, but shall only be there for one or two days—that is, for one night. I go almost entirely on her business, and must, I fear, be here again, or at the castle, before I can settle myself either for work or happiness. On Sunday night I go down to Bobsborough—where, indeed, I ought to have been earlier. I fear I cannot go to Richmond on the Saturday, and on the Sunday Lady Fawn would hardly make me welcome. I shall be at Bobsborough for about three weeks, and there, if you have commands to give, I will obey them.
I may, however, tell you the truth at once—though it is a truth you must keep very much to yourself. In the position in which I now stand as to Lord Fawn—being absolutely forced to quarrel with him on Lizzie’s behalf—Lady Fawn could hardly receive me with comfort to herself. She is the best of women; and, as she is your dear friend, nothing is further from me than any idea of quarrelling with her; but of course she takes her son’s part, and I hardly know how all allusion to the subject could be avoided.
This, however, dearest, need ruffle no feather between you and me, who love each other better than we love either the Fawns or the Lizzies. Let me find a line at my chambers to say that it is so, and always shall be so.
On the following day he rode over to the castle. He had received a letter from John Eustace, who had found himself forced to run up to London to meet Mr. Camperdown. The lawyer had thought to postpone further consideration of the whole matter till he and everybody else would be naturally in London—till November that might be, or, perhaps, even till after Christmas. But his mind was ill at ease; and he knew that so much might be done with the diamonds in four months! They might even now be in the hands of some Benjamin or of some Harter, and it might soon be beyond the power either of lawyers or of policemen to trace them. He therefore went up from Dawlish and persuaded John Eustace to come from Yorkshire. It was a great nuisance, and Eustace freely anathematised the necklace. “If only someone would steal it, so that we might hear no more of the thing!” he said. But, as Mr. Camperdown had frequently remarked, the value was too great for trifling, and Eustace went up to London. Mr. Camperdown put into his hands the Turtle Dove’s opinion, explaining that it was by no means expedient that it should be shown to the other party. Eustace thought that the opinion should be common to them all. “We pay for it,” said Mr. Camperdown, “and they can get their opinion from any other barrister if they please.” But what was to be done? Eustace declared that as to the present whereabouts of the necklace, he did not in the least doubt that he could get the truth from Frank Greystock. He therefore wrote to Greystock, and with that letter in his pocket, Frank rode over to the castle for the last time.
He, too, was heartily sick of the necklace;—but unfortunately he was not equally sick of her who held it in possession. And he was, too, better alive to the importance of the value of the trinket than John Eustace, though not so keenly as was Mr. Camperdown. Lady Eustace was out somewhere among the cliffs, the servant said. He regretted this as he followed her, but he was obliged to follow her. Halfway down to the seashore, much below the knob on which she had attempted to sit with her Shelley, but yet not below the need of assistance, he found her seated in a little ravine. “I knew you would come,” she said. Of course she had known that he would come. She did not rise, or even give him her hand, but there was a spot close beside her on which it was to be presumed that he would seat himself. She had a volume of Byron in her hand—the Corsair, Lara, and the Giaour—a kind of poetry which was in truth more intelligible to her than Queen Mab. “You go tomorrow?”
“Yes;—I go tomorrow.”
“And Lubin has gone?” Arthur Herriot was Lubin.
“Lubin has gone. Though why Lubin, I cannot guess. The normal Lubin to me is a stupid fellow always in love. Herriot is not stupid and is never in love.”
“Nevertheless, he is Lubin if I choose to call him so. Why did he twiddle his thumbs instead of talking? Have you heard anything of Lord Fawn?”
“I have had a letter from your brother-in-law.”
“And what is John the Just pleased to say?”
“John the Just, which is a better name for the man than the other, has been called up to London, much against his will, by Mr. Camperdown.”
“Who is Samuel the Unjust.” Mr. Camperdown’s name was Samuel.
“And now wants to know where this terrible necklace is at this present moment.” He paused a moment, but Lizzie did not answer him. “I suppose you have no objection to telling me where it is.”
“None in the least:—or to giving it you to keep for me, only that I would not so far trouble you. But I have an objection to telling them. They are my enemies. Let them find out.”
“You are wrong, Lizzie. You do not want, or at any rate should not want, to have any secret in the matter.”
“They are here—in the castle; in the very place in which Sir Florian kept them when he gave them to me. Where should my own jewels be but in my own house? What does that Mr. Dove
