A NEW CLIENT
On the afternoon of Friday, June 2, 18--, I was entering in my
case-book some memoranda having reference to the very curious matter of
the Duchess of Datchet’s Deed-box. It was about two o’clock. Andrews
came in and laid a card upon my desk. On it was inscribed ‘Mr Paul
Lessingham.’
‘Show Mr Lessingham in.’
Andrews showed him in. I was, of course, familiar with Mr Lessingham’s
appearance, but it was the first time I had had with him any personal
communication. He held out his hand to me.
‘You are Mr Champnell?’
‘I am.’
‘I believe that I have not had the honour of meeting you before, Mr
Champnell, but with your father, the Earl of Glenlivet, I have the
pleasure of some acquaintance.’
I bowed. He looked at me, fixedly, as if he were trying to make out
what sort of man I was.
‘You are very young, Mr Champnell.’
‘I have been told that an eminent offender in that respect once
asserted that youth is not of necessity a crime.’
‘And you have chosen a singular profession,--one in which one hardly
looks for juvenility.’
‘You yourself, Mr Lessingham, are not old. In a statesman one expects
grey hairs.--I trust that I am sufficiently ancient to be able to do
you service.’
He smiled.
‘I think it possible. I have heard of you more than once, Mr Champnell,
always to your advantage. My friend, Sir John Seymour, was telling me,
only the other day, that you have recently conducted for him some
business, of a very delicate nature, with much skill and tact; and he
warmly advised me, if ever I found myself in a predicament, to come to
you. I find myself in a predicament now.’
Again I bowed.
‘A predicament, I fancy, of an altogether unparalleled sort. I take it
that anything I may say to you will be as though it were said to a
father confessor.’
‘You may rest assured of that.’
‘Good.--Then, to make the matter clear to you I must begin by telling
you a story,--if I may trespass on your patience to that extent. I will
endeavour not to be more verbose than the occasion requires.’
I offered him a chair, placing it in such a position that the light
from the window would have shone full upon his face. With the calmest
possible air, as if unconscious of my design, he carried the chair to
the other side of my desk, twisting it right round before he sat on
it,--so that now the light was at his back and on my face. Crossing his
legs, clasping his hands about his knee, he sat in silence for some
moments, as if turning something over in his mind. He glanced round the
room.
‘I suppose, Mr Champnell, that some singular tales have been told in
here.’
‘Some very singular tales indeed. I am never appalled by singularity.
It is my normal atmosphere.’
‘And yet I should be disposed to wager that you have never listened to
so strange a story as that which I am about to tell you now. So
astonishing, indeed, is the chapter in my life which I am about to open
out to you, that I have more than once had to take myself to task, and
fit the incidents together with mathematical accuracy in order to
assure myself of its perfect truth.’
He paused. There was about his demeanour that suggestion of reluctance
which I not uncommonly discover in individuals who are about to take
the skeletons from their cupboards and parade them before my eyes. His
next remark seemed to point to the fact that he perceived what was
passing through my thoughts.
‘My position is not rendered easier by the circumstance that I am not
of a communicative nature. I am not in sympathy with the spirit of the
age which craves for personal advertisement. I hold that the private
life even of a public man should be held inviolate. I resent, with
peculiar bitterness, the attempts of prying eyes to peer into matters
which, as it seems to me, concern myself alone. You must, therefore,
bear with me, Mr Champnell, if I seem awkward in disclosing to you
certain incidents in my career which I had hoped would continue locked
in the secret depository of my own bosom, at any rate till I was
carried to the grave. I am sure you will suffer me to stand excused if
I frankly admit that it is only an irresistible chain of incidents
which has constrained me to make of you a confidant.’
‘My experience tells me, Mr Lessingham, that no one ever does come to
me until they are compelled. In that respect I am regarded as something
worse even than a medical man.’
A wintry smile flitted across his features,--it was clear that he
regarded me as a good deal worse than a medical man. Presently he began
to tell me one of the most remarkable tales which even I had heard. As
he proceeded I understood how strong, and how natural, had been his
desire for reticence. On the mere score of credibility he must have
greatly preferred to have kept his own counsel. For my part I own,
unreservedly, that I should have deemed the tale incredible had it been
told me by Tom, Dick, or Harry, instead of by Paul Lessingham.