CHAPTER XLIX. M. BORDIER JOINS THE HUNT.

On the twelfth day I said:

"Bob, I think I shall run up to London."

"By all means," said Bob, cheerfully, a sign that my society was not indispensable to him, and that he was not wearying of his task. "Should anything occur I will telegraph to you. To which address, though?"

"Repeat your telegrams," I said, "to my chambers and my mother's house. I shall be back in two days, and if by that time things are still in the same position I think you should pay a visit to Sophy, and contrive somehow to speak to her. This inaction is intolerable."

"You have no patience," said Bob. "The train is laid. What more do you want?"

"Movement, Bob, movement." I looked at my watch. "Mustn't lose the train. I'm off."

And off I was, and in a few minutes whirling toward London. It was destined, however, that I should not reach there as early as I expected. We were midway when the train slackened, crawled along a few hundred yards, then came to a standstill.

"What's the matter?" I called to the guard, thrusting my head out of the window.

"Engine broke down, sir," was the answer. "Can't get on."

"Confound it!" I cried. "How long shall we have to wait?"

"There's no knowing, sir. Not till to-morrow morning, perhaps."

"But it is impossible for me to remain here all night."

"Very sorry, sir. It doesn't depend upon me. Accidents will happen."

Fretting and fuming would not mend matters, and I was compelled to submit. It turned out as the guard had indicated. Something else had occurred on the line which rendered it out of the question that another engine could be sent to our aid, and we did not arrive in London till the afternoon of the following day. I hastened at once to my chambers, then visited the office of the Evening Moon, and then proceeded to my mother's house, which I did not reach till six o'clock in the evening. The moment the street door was opened Emilia ran into the passage to greet me.

"You have seen him," she cried, "and he has explained all."

"Seen whom?" I asked, very much astonished, "and what is there to explain?"

"You have not met M. Bordier, then," she said, falling back.

"No," I replied. "I left the country suddenly yesterday, and an accident happened to the train. I was detained all night."

"I sent you a letter also," said Emilia, "it was posted yesterday morning."

"That accounts for my not receiving it. It must have arrived after my departure."

I saw that she was agitated, and I led her to the sitting-room, where, after exchanging a few words with my mother, we were left alone. Then I learnt what had taken place.

M. Bordier, it appears, had visited Emilia every day during my absence, and had observed in her signs of suppressed excitement which had caused him deep concern. At first he made no comment upon this change in her, but at length he questioned her, and, receiving no satisfaction, told her with delicate pointedness that he deemed it her duty to confide in him if she were in any trouble. Still she evaded his inquiries, and this with marks of such extreme distress that he became more pressing in his desire that she should be candid and straightforward with him. I will give what afterward transpired in Emilia's own words.

"He came the night before last," she said, "and asked to speak privately with me. I could not refuse him; it appeared to me as if my refusal to appease his natural curiosity had aroused suspicions which might be fatal to my daughter's happiness. He spoke very kindly, but very firmly. Considering the relations in which we stood to each other, he had come to a decision which it was right should be communicated to me. Before doing so he would ask me a question or two to which he expected frank answers. He asked me how long I had known your family. I replied, about two weeks. Had I any previous knowledge of them? I said no. Through whom had I become acquainted with them? I said, through you. He then asked who and what you were; I told him, trembling all the time, because his questions were leading straight to the secret I was hiding from him. Had I any previous knowledge of you, he asked; were you related to me in any way? I answered that you were not related to me, and that I had made your acquaintance only since my arrival in London. Were you acquainted with the cause of my trouble, he asked. I said yes, you were, and that you were endeavoring to befriend me. He reflected a little before he continued, and when he spoke it was in the same kind and gentle voice, but more firmly than before. 'It amounts to this,' he said, 'that you have a secret which has brought grief upon you, and that you confide this secret to a stranger and deny it to me. I draw from this a reasonable inference--that you have a trouble of a private nature which you are deliberately concealing from those who have a right, if anyone has the right, to share it with you. Is it a pecuniary trouble?' I answered that it was not, and he said that he regretted it, as then it might be easily got over. He then referred to the conversation we had in Geneva, when he came to speak to me about Julian's attachment to my dear child, and to a remark he had made that the time would arrive when it would be necessary that he should become acquainted with certain particulars of my past life. My heart fainted within me when he bluntly inquired whether my secret was in any way connected with my past history. I could make but one reply, yes. 'Do you not see,' he said, 'that you are creating suspicions in my mind, and that I am beginning to ask myself whether I should be doing my duty as a father if I allowed the engagement between our children to continue? Be advised for your own sake, for theirs. Tell me everything; accord to me at least the privileges you have accorded to a stranger. I have the reputation of being a just man, and I know that I have none but kindly feelings toward you. There are difficulties, I admit, in many human lives which need the skill of a strong man to surmount. I place my knowledge of the world and my goodwill at your service, and if you refuse to avail yourself of them your conduct will inspire me with very grave doubts.' Thus driven, what could I do? It seemed to me that it would be the wisest course to confide implicitly in him, and I did so. I laid bare the story of my life, from my earliest remembrance to the hour the disclosure was made. The errand upon which I came to England, my adventures here, my meeting with you, my interview with Gerald's brother--nothing was concealed; I even searched my mind to be sure that not a detail was omitted. And then I threw myself upon his mercy. I swore solemnly to the truth of my story, and to my belief that the marriage ceremony was genuine. 'To part from your son now,' I said, 'will break my daughter's heart. In mercy to her, have pity!' 'From my inmost soul I pity you,' he said. 'I believe your story; I believe you to be honestly married; but it must be proved; we must be able to hold up our heads in the face of the world. You say there is a chance of the copy of your marriage certificate being hidden in the secret drawer of the writing-desk you have described, and that a scheme is in operation which holds out a hope that the desk may be found. Julian loves your daughter; his happiness is bound up in her; and because I am his father and love him most sincerely I will do all that lies in my power to set this crooked matter straight. I will go down to your friend Mr. Agnold as your representative and champion. Give me a letter to him which will confer upon me the right to act for you. There are means in my hands which Mr. Agnold may not possess, or would not naturally be willing to employ, by which we can attain our object. I can go myself to this Dr. Peterssen, and offer to purchase the desk from him, supposing it to be in his possession. To such a man a large sum of money would be a temptation; I would not stop short of five thousand pounds; and this, with a guarantee that he shall not be molested, and time afforded him to reach another country, may be the crowning inducement. Even if he has not the desk, he is pretty sure to have learnt from Mr. Gerald Paget the name of the place in which the marriage ceremony was performed, and would be willing to sell the information for the sum I have named. The proof then would be easy. Write a letter at once; I will start to-morrow.' His words, his voice, gave me hope. I wrote the letter, and yesterday he left London to present it to you."

This was the story which Emilia narrated to me, and I could not blame her for acting as she had done. Only I was angry with myself for leaving Bob; had I remained I should have seen M. Bordier, and we might have discussed matters and brought them to a head. In view of what Bob had said of his impression that Dr. Peterssen was very hard up, the temptation which M. Bordier was ready to offer would be too strong for him. Five thousand pounds was a grand bait, and Dr. Peterssen would have accepted it and fled the country.

"You have done right," I said to Emilia.

"How thankful I am that you approve!" she exclaimed. "It seemed to me ungrateful that I should take a step so important without consulting you."

"You had no choice," I said, "and M. Bordier is a gentleman. Did his son accompany him?"

"Poor Julian! I do not know. I fear he is scarcely in a fit state."

I inferred from this that Julian Bordier was ill, but before I had time to make an inquiry my mother entered the room.

"A telegram for you," she said, and handed it to me.

I tore it open and read it. "I have strange and important news for you. Sophy is with me. Come down at once. Bob."

There was an A B C in the house, and I turned over the pages feverishly. I had just twenty-two minutes to catch a train, the last of the day, which would enable me to get to Bob at about eleven o'clock. Late as it would be I knew that he would expect me. I rapidly explained to Emilia the necessity of my immediate departure, and ran out of the house. Fortunately a cab was passing. "Drive as if Old Nick was at your heels," I said to the cabby, jumping in. "Treble fare." The driver cracked his whip, and away we rattled.