“I’ll tell you but I’ll not tell any one else,” said the young girl, turning to Lady Kilgoff; and at the same instant she whispered in her ear, “if I were to be married to Mr. Cashel.”
“Well,” said her Ladyship, laughing, “and was the bribe sufficient?”
“I should think not!” replied she, with a scornful toss of the head, as she walked back to her seat.
“I winna say,” said Sir Andrew, “but I ha’ a bit claim mysel to that bonnie snuff-box he ca’d a Louis-Quatorze; if ye mind, leddies, I asked him to mak’ me a present o’ it, and he replied, ‘In my weell, Sir Andrew; I’ll leave it ye in my weell.’”
“I foresee there will be abundance of litigation,” said the Chief Justice, “for the claims are both numerous and conflicting.”
“You ‘ll not be troubled with the next of kin, I believe,” said Lady Janet, in her most spiteful of voices.
“I say, my Lord Chief Justice,” said Frobisher, “let me have a travelling opinion from you, on a legal point. Wouldn’t Linton’s heirs, or representatives, or whatever they ‘re called, be bound to ‘book up’ if Ramekin is beaten in the handicap?”
“The law expressly declares such transactions without its pale, my Lord,” said the judge, rebukingly.
“Well, I can only say,” interrupted Upton, “that when we were in cantonments at Sickmabund, Jack Faris ‘of ours’ had a heavy stake in a game of piquet with the major, and just as he was going to count his point, he gave a tremendous yell, and jumped up from the table. It was a cobra capella had bitten him in the calf of the leg. Everything was done for him at once, but all in vain; he swelled up to the size of four, and died in about two hours. It was rather hard on old Cox, the major, who had two hundred pounds on it, and a capital hand; and so he made a representation to the mess, showing that he had seven cards to his point, with a quint in hearts; that, taking in the ace of clubs, he should count a quatorze, and, therefore, unquestionably win the game. The thing was clear as day, and so they awarded him the stakes. Cox behaved very handsomely, too; for he said, ‘If Faris’s widow likes to play the game out, I ‘ll give her the opportunity when we get back to England, and back myself, two to one.’”
“The Chevalier Bayard himself could not have done more,” said Miss Kennyfeck, with admirable gravity.
“I must say,” resumed the dragoon, “we thought it handsome, for old Cox was always hard up for money.”
“And what is to become of our theatricals, if Mr. Linton should have been so ill-natured as to drown himself?” said Mrs. White, in a most disconsolate tone; for she had already made terrible havoc in her wardrobe to accomplish a Turkish costume.
“Such a disappointment as it will be,” sighed Olivia Kennyfeck, who had speculated on a last effort upon Cashel in a Mexican dress, where, certes, superfluity should not be the fault.
“You can always make some compensation for the disappointment,” said Lady Kilgoff, “by a fancy ball.”
“Oh, delightful! the very thing!” exclaimed several together. “When shall it be, Mr. Cashel?”
“I am entirely at your orders,” said he, bowing courteously.
“Shall we say Tuesday, then?”
“Not Tuesday; we have the race on that morning,” said Frobisher; “and some of us, at least, will be too tired for a ball afterwards.”
“Well, Wednesday, – is Wednesday open?”
“Wednesday was fixed for a boat excursion to Holy Island,” said Cashel.
“You can’t have Thursday, then,” exclaimed Lady Janet; “that is the only evening we ever have our rubber. I’ll not give you Thursday.”
“Friday we are to have some people at dinner,” said Cashel; “and Saturday was to have been some piece of electioneering festivity for Linton’s constituents.”
“What matter now?” said Mrs. White; “perhaps the poor dear man is in a better place. A very sad thought,” sighed she; “but such things are happening every day.”
“Ah, yes, very sad,” responded Meek, who never failed to perform echo to any one’s lamentation.
“Ah, indeed!” chimed in Aunt Fanny, “cut off like a daisy.” And she wiped her eyes and looked solemn, for she believed she was quoting Scripture.
At last it was decided that the ball should come off on the earliest evening possible, irrespective of all other arrangements; and now the company formed in a great circle, discussing dresses and characters and costumes with an eager interest that showed how little Linton’s fate had thrown a shadow over the bright picture of anticipated pleasure.
CHAPTER VI. THE SEASON OF LINTON’S FLITTING
He could outrogue a lawyer.
Oldham.
Revealing so freely as we do the hidden wiles of our characters for the reader’s pleasure, it would ill become us to affect any reserve or mystery regarding their actions. We shall not make, therefore, any secret of Mr. Linton’s absence, nor ask of our patient reader to partake of the mystification that prevailed among the company at Tubbermore.
It so chanced, that on the evening preceding his departure he saw in a newspaper paragraph the arrival of a very distinguished lawyer at Limerick on his way to Dublin, and the thought at once occurred to him, that the opportunity was most favorable for obtaining an opinion respecting the “Corrigan Pardon,” without incurring either suspicion or any lengthened absence.
Another object, inferior, but not devoid of interest, also suggested itself. It was this: profiting by a secret passage which led from the theatre to Cashel’s bedroom, it was Linton’s custom to visit this chamber every day, ransacking the letters and papers which, in his careless indolence, Roland left loose upon the tables, and thus possessing himself of the minutest knowledge of Cashel’s affairs. In his very last visit to this room, he perceived a cumbrous document, of which the seal of the envelope was broken, but apparently the contents unlooked at. It was enough that he read the indorsement, “Deed of conveyance of the Cottage and Lands of Tubber-beg.”
Feeling how far he himself was interested in the paper, and well knowing the forgetful habits of Cashel, who would never detect its removal, he coolly folded it up and carried it away.
At first, his intention was simply to peruse the paper at his ease, and, if need were, to show it in confidence to Cor-rigan, and thus establish for himself that degree of influence over the old man which the character of his landlord might convey. But another and a bolder expedient soon suggested itself to his mind – nor was he one to shrink from an enterprise merely on account of its hazard – and this was no less than to forge Cashel’s signature to the deed; for, as yet, it was wanting in that most essential particular.
That Roland would never remember anything of the matter, and that he would always incline to believe his own memory defective, than suppose such a falsification possible, Linton was well convinced. There was but one difficulty; how should he manage for the witnesses, whose names were to be appended as actually present at the moment of signing. Here was a stumbling-block – since he could scarcely hope to find others as short of memory as was Roland Cashel. It was while still canvassing the question in his mind that he came upon the intelligence in the newspaper of the lawyer’s arrival at Limerick, and suddenly it struck him that he could easily in that city find out two persons, who, for a sufficient consideration, would append their signatures to the deed. A little further reflection devised even an easier plan, which was to take along with him the Italian sailor Giovanni, and make him represent Cashel, whose appearance was quite unknown. By Giovanni’s personation of Roland, Linton escaped all the hazard of letting others into his confidence, while the sailor himself, in a few days more, would leave the country – never to return.
It was with the calm assurance of a man who could put a price upon any action required of him, that Giovanni found himself, an hour after midnight, summoned to Linton’s dressing-room.
“I told you some time back, Giovanni, that we might be serviceable to each other. The hour has come a little earlier than I looked for; and now the question is, are you of the same mind as you then were?”
“I know nothing of the laws of this country, signor, but if there be life on the issue – ”
“No, no, nothing like that, my worthy fellow. In the present case, all I ask for is your silence and your secrecy.”
“Oh, that is easily had – go on, signor.”
“Well, I wish to go over to-morrow by daybreak to Limerick. I desire, too, that you should accompany me – as my companion, however, and my equal. We are about the same height and size, so take that suit there, dress yourself, and wait for me at the cross-roads below the village.”
The Italian took the parcel without speaking, and was about to retire, when Linton said, —
“You can write, I suppose?”
The other nodded.
“I shall want you to sign a document in presence of witnesses – not your own name, but another, which I’ll tell you.”
The Italian’s dark eyes flashed with a keen and subtle meaning, and leaning forward, he said in a low, distinct tone, —
“His Excellency means that I should forge a name?”
“It is scarcely deserving so grave a phrase,” replied Linton, affecting an easy smile; “but what I ask amounts pretty much to that. Have you scruples about it?”
“My scruples are not easily alarmed, signor; only let us understand each other. I’ll do anything” – and he laid a deep emphasis on the word – “when I see my way clear before me, nothing when I am blindfolded.”
“A man after my own heart!” cried Linton; “and now, good-night. Be true to the time and place.” And with this they parted.
The gray mist of a winter morning was just clearing away as Linton, accompanied by Giovanni, drove up to the principal hotel of Limerick, where Mr. Hammond, the eminent barrister, was then stopping. Having ascertained that he was still in the house, Linton at once sent up his name, with a request to be admitted to an interview with him. The position he had so long enjoyed among the officials of the Viceroy had made Linton a person of considerable importance in a city where the “plated article” so often passes for silver: and no sooner had the lawyer read the name, than he immediately returned a polite answer, saying that he was perfectly at Mr. Linton’s orders.
The few inquiries which Mr. Linton had meanwhile made at the bar of the hotel informed him that Mr. Hammond was making all haste to England, where he was about to appear in a case before the House of Lords; that horses had been already ordered for him along the whole line of road, and his presence in London was imperative. Armed with these facts, Linton entered the room, where, surrounded with deeds, drafts, and acts of Parliament, the learned counsel was sitting at his breakfast.
“It was but last night late, Mr. Hammond,” said he, advancing with his very frankest manner, “that we caught sight of your name as having arrived here, and you see I have lost no time in profiting by the intelligence. I have come thirty Irish miles this day to catch and carry you off with me to Mr. Cashel’s, at Tubbermore.”
“Most kind, indeed – very flattering – I am really overpowered,” said the lawyer, actually reddening with pleasure; and he said the exact truth, he was “overpowered” by a compliment so little expected. For, although high in his profession, and in considerable repute among his brethren, he had never been admitted into that peculiar class which calls itself the first society of the metropolis.
“I assure you,” resumed Linton, “it was by a vote of the whole house I undertook my mission. The Kilgoffs, the MacFarlines, the Chief Justice, Meek, and, in fact, all your friends, are there, and we only want you to make the party complete.”
“I cannot express the regret – the very deep regret – I feel at being obliged to decline such an honor; one which, I am free to confess, actually takes me by surprise. But, my dear Mr. Linton, you see these weighty papers – that formidable heap yonder – ”
“Meek said so,” said Linton, interrupting, and at the same time assuming a look of deep despondency. “‘Hammond will refuse,’ said he. ‘There’s no man at the Irish bar has the same amount of business; he cannot give his friends even one hour from his clients.’”
“I ‘m sure I scarcely suspected the Right Honorable Secretary knew of me,” said Hammond, blushing between pleasure and shame.
“Downie not know of you! – not know Mr. Hammond! – come, come – this may do for a bit of quiz in those Irish newspapers that are always affecting to charge English officials with ignorance of the distinguished men here; but I cannot permit Mr. Hammond himself to throw out the aspersion, nor, indeed, can I suffer Meek, one of my oldest friends, to lie under the obloquy. I need not tell one so much more capable of appreciating these things than myself how every administration comes into office with a host of followers far more eager for place, and infinitely more confident of high deservings, than the truly capable men of the party. These ‘locusts’ eat up the first harvest, but, happily for humanity, they rarely live for a second.”
Linton leaned back in his chair, and appeared to be taking counsel with himself, and at length, as if having formed his resolve, said, —
“Of course frankness with such a man is never a mistaken policy.” And with this muttered soliloquy again became silent.
CHAPTER VII. FORGERY
It was not “Flattery,” he sold, but “Hope.”
Bell.
We left Mr. Linton and Mr. Hammond seated opposite each other, the former lost in seeming reflection, the latter awaiting with eager expectancy for something which might explain the few strange words he had just listened to.
“May I venture on a bit of confidence, Mr. Hammond?” said Linton, clearing his brow as he spoke; “you’ll never betray me?”
“Never – on my honor.”
“Never, willingly, I well know; but I mean, will you strictly keep what I shall tell you – for yourself alone – because, as I am the only depositary of the fact, it would be inevitable ruin to me if it got about?”
“I give you my solemn pledge – I promise.”
“Quite enough – well – ” Here he leaned on the other’s shoulder, and putting his lips close to his ear, said: “Malone will retire – Repton will be chief – and” – here he prodded the listener with his finger – “Attorney-General.”
“You mean me, sir – do you mean that I am to be Attor – ”
“Hush!” said Linton, in a long low note; “do not breathe it, even in your sleep! If I know these things, it is because I am trusted in quarters where men of far more influence are hoodwinked. Were I once to be suspected of even this much, it would be ‘up’ with me forever.”
“My dear friend – will you pardon me for calling you so? – I ‘d suffer the torture of the rack before I ‘d divulge one syllable of it. I own to you, my family and my friends in general have not been patient under what they deemed the Government neglect of me.”
“And with too good reason, sir,” said Linton, assuming the look and air of a moralizer. “And do you know why you have been passed over, Mr. Hammond? I’ll tell you, sir; because your talents were too brilliant, and your integrity too spotless, for promotion, in times when inferior capacities and more convenient consciences were easier tools to handle! – Because you are not a man who, once placed in a conspicuous position, can be consigned to darkness and neglect when his capabilities have been proved to the world! – Because your knowledge, sir, your deep insight into the political condition of this country, would soon have placed you above the heads of the very men who appointed you. But times are changed; capable men, zealous men – ay, sir, and I will say, great men – are in request now. The public will have them, and ministers can no longer either overlook their claim or ignore their merit. You may rely upon it; I see something of what goes on behind the scenes of the great State drama, and be assured that a new era is about to dawn on the really able men of this country.”
“Your words have given me a degree of encouragement, Mr. Linton, that I was very far from ever expecting to receive. I have often deplored – not on my own account, I pledge my honor – but I have grieved for others, whom I have seen here, unnoticed and undistinguished by successive Governments.”
“Well, there is an end of the system now, and it was time!” said Linton, solemnly. “But to come back. Is there no chance of stealing you away, even for a couple of days?”
“Impossible, my dear Mr. Linton. The voluminous mass of evidence yonder relates to an appeal case, in which I am to appear before ‘the Lords.’ It is a most important suit; and I am at this very moment on my way to London, to attend a consultation with the Solicitor-General.”
“How unfortunate! – for us, I mean – for, indeed, your client cannot join in the plaint. By the way, your mention of ‘the Lords’ reminds me of a very curious circumstance. You are aware of the manner in which my friend Cashel succeeded to this great estate here?”
“Yes. I was consulted on a point of law in it, and was present at the two trials.”
“Well, a most singular discovery has been made within the last few days. I suppose you remember that the property had been part of a confiscated estate, belonging to an old Irish family, named Corrigan?”
“I remember perfectly, – a very fine old man, that used to be well known at Daly’s Club, long ago.”
“The same. Well, this old gentleman has been always under the impression that shortly after the accession of George III. the Act of Confiscation was repealed, and a full pardon granted to his ancestors for the part they had taken in the events of the time.”
“I never knew the descendants of one of those ‘confiscated’ families who had not some such hallucination,” said Hammond, laughing; “they cling to the straw, like the drowning man.”
“Exactly,” said Linton. “I quite agree with you. In the present case, however, the support is better than a straw; for there is an actual bona fide document extant, purporting to be the very pardon in question, signed by the king, and bearing the royal seal.”
“Where is this? In whose possession?” said Hammond, eagerly.
Linton did not heed the question, but continued, —
“By a very singular coincidence, the discovery is not of so much moment as it might be; because, as Cashel is about to marry the old man’s granddaughter – his sole heiress – no change in the destination of the estate would ensue, even supposing Corrigan’s title to be all that he ever conceived it. However, Cashel is really anxious on the point: he feels scruples about making settlements and so forth, with the consciousness that he may be actually disposing of what he has no real claim to. He is a sensitive fellow; and yet he dreads, on the other side, the kind of exposure that would ensue in the event of this discovery becoming known. The fact is, his own ancestors were little better than bailiffs on the estate; and the inference from this new-found paper would lead one to say, not over-honest stewards besides.”
“But if this document be authentic, Mr. Linton, Cashel’s title is not worth sixpence.”
“That is exactly what I ‘m coming to,” said Linton, who, the reader may have already perceived, was merely inventing a case regarding a marriage, the better to learn from the counsel the precise position the estate would stand in towards Mary Leicester’s husband. “If this document be authentic, Cashel’s title is invalid. Now, what would constitute its authenticity?”
“Several circumstances: the registry of the pardon in the State Paper Office – the document itself, bearing the unmistakable evidences of its origin – the signature and seal – in fact, it could not admit of much doubt when submitted to examination.”
“I told Cashel so,” said Linton. “I said to him, ‘My opinion unquestionably is that the pardon is genuine; but,’ said I, ‘when we have Hammond here, he shall see it, and decide the question.’”
“Ah! that is impossible – ”
“So I perceive,” broke in Linton; “we then hoped otherwise.”
“Why did n’t you bring it over with you?”
“So I did,” said Linton; “here it is.” And opening a carefully folded envelope, he placed the important document in the lawyer’s bands.
Hammond spread it out upon the table, and sat down to read it over carefully, while Linton, to afford the more time to the scrutiny, took the opportunity of descending to his breakfast.
He stopped as he passed the bar to say a few words to the landlord, – one of those easy speeches he knew so well how to make about the “state of trade,” “what travellers were passing,” and “how the prospect looked for the coming season,” – and then, when turning away, as if suddenly recollecting himself, said: —
“By the way, Swindon, you are a cautious fellow, that a man may trust with a secret – you know who the gentleman is that came with me?”
“No, sir; never saw him before. Indeed, I did not remark him closely.”
“All the better, Swindon. He does not fancy anything like scrutiny. He is Mr. Roland Cashel.”
“Of Tubbermore, sir?”
“The same. Hush, man, – be cautious! He has come up here about a little law business on which he desired to consult Mr. Hammond, and now we have a document for signature, if you could only find us another person equally discreet with yourself to be the witness, for these kind of things, when they get about in the world, are misrepresented in a thousand ways. Do you happen to have any confidential man here would suit us?”
“If my head waiter, sir, Mr. Nipkin, would do; he writes an excellent hand, and is a most reserved, cautious young man.”
“Perfectly, Swindon; he’ll do perfectly. Will you join us upstairs, where my friend is in waiting? Pray, also, give Nipkin a hint not to bestow any undue attention on Mr. Cashel, who wants to be incog. so far as may be; as for yourself, Swindon, no hint is necessary.”
A graceful bow from the landlord acknowledged the compliment, and he hastened to give the necessary orders, while Linton continued his way to the apartment where the Italian awaited him.
“Impatient for breakfast, I suppose, Giovanni?” said Linton, gayly, as he entered. “Well? sit down, and let us begin. Already I have done more than half the business which brought me here, and we may be on our way back within an hour.”
Giovanni seated himself at the table without any of that constraint a sense of inferiority enforces, and began his breakfast in silence.
“You understand,” said Linton, “that when you have written the name ‘Roland Cashel,’ and are asked if that be your act and deed, you have simply to say ‘Yes;’ a bow – a mere nod, indeed – is sufficient.”
“I understand,” said he, thoughtfully, as if reflecting over the matter with himself. “I conclude, then,” added he, after a pause, “that the sooner I leave the country afterwards, the better – I mean the safer – for me.”
“As to any positive danger,” said Linton, affecting an easy carelessness, “there is none. The document is merely a copy of one already signed by Mr. Cashel, but which I have mislaid, and I am so ashamed of my negligence I cannot bring myself to confess it.”
This tame explanation Linton was unable to finish without faltering, for the Italian’s keen and piercing dark eyes seemed to penetrate into him as he was speaking.
“With this I have nothing to do,” said he, abruptly. “It is quite clear, however, that Giovanni Santini is not Roland Cashel; nor, if there be a penalty on what I have done, am I so certain that he whose name I shall have forged will undergo it in my place.”
“You talk of forgery and penalties as if we were about to commit a felony,” said Linton, laughing. “Pray give me the cream. There is really no such peril in the case, and if there were, it would be all mine.”
“I know nothing of your laws here – I desire to know nothing of them,” said the Italian, haughtily; “but if it should be my lot to be arraigned, let it be for something more worthy of manhood. I ‘ll sign the paper, but I shall leave the country at once.”
No words could have been more grateful to Linton’s ears than these; he was, even at that very moment, considering in his own mind in what way to disembarrass himself of his “friend” when this service should have been effected.
“As you please, Giovanni,” said be, gravely. “I regret to part company so soon with one whose frankness so well accords with my own humor.”
The Italian’s lips parted slightly, and a smile of cold and dubious meaning flitted across his dark features.
“We part here, then,” said he, rising from the table. “There is a vessel leaves this for Bristol at noon to-day; it is already past eleven o’clock.”
“I’ll not delay,” said Linton, rising and ringing the bell; “send Mr. Swindon here,” said he to the waiter, while he opened a parchment document upon the table, and after hastily glancing over it, folded it carefully again, leaving uppermost the margin, where certain pencil-marks indicated the places of signature. “This is yours, Giovanni,” said he, placing a weighty purse in the Italian’s hand, who took it with all the easy indifference of one whose feelings of shame were not too acute. “Remember what I have – ”
There was no time to finish, for already a light tap was-heard at the door, and the landlord, followed by the head waiter, entered.
“We were pressed for time, Swindon,” said Linton, as he examined the pens, which, like all hotel ones, seemed invented for ruling music paper, “and have sent for you to witness the signature to this document. Here, Cashel, you are to sign here,” said he, turning to Giovanni, who-had just lighted a cigar, and was smoking away with all imaginable coolness. The Italian took the pen, and with a bold and steady hand wrote the words “Roland Cashel.”
“Mr. Swindon at this side; Mr. Nipkin’s name comes underneath.”
“You acknowledge this for your hand and seal, sir?” said Swindon, turning towards Giovanni.
“I do,” said the Italian, in an accent which did not betray the slightest emotion, nor any trace of foreign pronunciation.
“All right; thank you, Swindon – thanks, Mr. Nipkin,” said Linton, as, with an elation of countenance all his efforts could not suppress, he folded up the parchment; “and now, will you order my horses at once?”
The landlord and the waiter left the room, and Linton found himself once more alone with Giovanni; the only consolation he felt being that it was for the last time. There was a pause, in which each gazed steadily at the other without a word. At last, with a long-drawn sigh, Giovanni exclaimed, —
“Perdio! but it is hard to do.” And with this he pressed his hat upon his brows, and waving a careless farewell with his hand, walked out, leaving Linton in a state of amazement not altogether unmingled with fear. Tom watched the tall and stalwart figure of the foreigner as he moved through the crowd that filled the quay, and it was with a sense of relief he could not explain to himself that he saw him cross the plank that led to the steamer, on whose deck numerous passengers were already assembled.
The bell rang out in warning of her approaching departure, and Linton kept his eyes intently fixed upon the one figure, which towered above the others around him. Already the scene of bustle portended the moment of starting, and some were hastening on board, as others, with not less eagerness, were endeavoring to get on shore; when, just at that instant, the landlord’s voice was heard.
“Mr. Hammond is just going off, sir; he wants to say one word to you before he goes.”
Mr. Hammond had just taken his seat in his carriage, and sat with one hand upon the door, awaiting Linton’s coming.
“I am run sharp for time, Mr. Linton,” cried he, “and have not a second to lose. I wish sincerely I could have given a little more time to that document – not indeed that any feature of difficulty exists in forming an opinion, only that I believe I could have put your friend on the safe road as to his future course.”
“You regard it then as authentic – as a good and valid instrument?” said Linton, in a low but eager voice.
“So much so,” said Hammond, lowering his tone to a mere whisper, “that if he does not marry the young lady in question, I would not give him twenty shillings for his title.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Linton, leaning his head on the door of the carriage, as if to conceal his chagrin, but in reality to hide the exuberance of his joy; “and this is your candid opinion of the case?”
“I am willing to stake my fame as a lawyer on the issue; for, remember, the whole history of the suit is familiar to me. I recollect well the flaws in the course of proofs adduced, and I see how this discovery reconciles each discrepancy, and supplies every missing link of the chain.”
“Poor fellow! – it will be a sad blow for him,” said Linton, with admirably feigned emotion.
“But it need not, Mr. Linton; the church can tie a knot not even an equity suit can open. Let him marry.”
“Ay, if he will.”
“Tell him he must; tell him what I now tell you, that this girl is the greatest heiress in the land, and that he is a beggar. Plain speaking, Mr. Linton, but time is short Good-bye.”
“One word more. Is the document of such a nature that leaves him no case whatever? Is all the ground cut away beneath his feet?”
“Every inch of it. Once more, good-bye. Here is your parchment; keep it safely. There are few men in this city hold in their hands a paper of such moment.”
“I’ll take good care of it,” said Linton, sententiously; “and so good-bye, and a safe journey to you. I ‘ll not forget our conversation of this morning; Meek shall hear of it before I sleep to-night. Adieu.”
“The richest heiress in the land, and Cashel a beggar,” repeated Linton, slowly, to himself, as the carriage drove off. “Charley Frobisher would say, ‘Hedge on the double event,’ but I ‘ll keep my book.” And, with this slang reflection, he sauntered into the inn to wait for his horses.