When rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what
price they will.--_Much Ado about Nothing_.
Morton reached New York, and found the person to whom he had been
referred by Richards. He proved to be a German, of respectable
appearance enough; but Morton could learn nothing from him. He
admitted that he had once known Speyer; but stubbornly denied all
present knowledge concerning him; and after various inquiry elsewhere,
which brought him into contact with much vile company, without helping
him towards his end, Morton gave over the search, and returned to
Boston.
A day or two after, he met Richards in the street.
"Well, Mr. Richards, I was in New York the other day, and saw your
man; but he knew nothing about Speyer."
Richards laughed.
"I dare say not; just let me write to him; he will tell me a different
story. I used to be hand and glove with all these refugees; and I will
lay you any bet I find Speyer's whereabouts within a week."
Accordingly, three or four days after, Richards called at Morton's
lodgings, with an air of great self-satisfaction.
"I have spotted your game for you, sir, and he won't run away in a
hurry, either. He'll be sure to wait till you come. He's in jail."
"What, for debt?"
"No, for an assault on a Frenchman. It was about a woman, a friend of
Speyer's. You know I told you what a jealous fellow he is." And he
proceeded to recount what further information he had gained.
"Odd," pondered Richards, after parting from Morton, "that a
millionnaire like him, and not at all a mean man either, should
trouble himself so much about any picayune debt that Speyer can owe
him. There is something in this business more than I can make out."
While Richards occupied himself with these reflections, Morton
repaired to his lodgings and made his preparations. On the next
morning, he was in New York again.
He went to the jail where Speyer was confined, and readily gained
leave to see him. A somewhat loquacious officer, who was to conduct
him to the prisoner's room, confirmed what Richards had told him, and
gave him some new particulars. Speyer, he said, had never before, to
his knowledge, come under the notice of the police. He had been living
in good lodgings, and in a somewhat showy style. The person who had
occasioned the quarrel was an Italian girl. "She comes every day to
see him," said the policeman--"she's a wild one, I tell you; and he
frets himself to death because he is shut up here, and can't be round
to look after her."
"So much the better," thought Morton, who hoped that this impatience
would aid him in his intended negotiation.
"For how long a time is he sentenced?" he asked.
"For three weeks; unless he can find somebody to pay his fine for
him."
On entering the prisoner's room, Morton saw a man of about forty, well
dressed, though in a jail, but whose sallow features, deep-set eyes,
and square, massive lower jaw, well covered with a black beard,
indicated a character likely to be any thing but tractable. If he had
been either a gentleman on the one hand, or a common ruffian on the
other, his visitor might have better known how to deal with him; but
he had the look of one to whom, whatever he might be at heart, a
various contact with mankind had armed with an invincible
self-possession, and guarded at all points against surprise.
Morton was a wretched diplomatist, and had sense enough to know it. He
knew that if he tried to manoeuvre with his antagonist, the latter
would outflank him in a moment, and he had therefore resolved on a
sudden and direct attack. But when he saw Speyer, he could not repress
a lingering doubt whether he were in fact the person of whom he was in
search. His chief object was to gain from him, if possible, any
letters of Vinal which might be in his hands. There was no direct
evidence that he had any such letters; yet Morton thought that the
only hope of success lay in assuming his having them as a certainty,
and pretending a positive knowledge, where, in truth, he had no other
ground of action than conjecture. So he smothered his doubts, and as
soon as the policeman was gone, made a crashing onset on the enemy.
"My name is Vassall Morton. I escaped four months ago from the Castle
of Ehrenberg. I have known something of you through Mr. Vinal."
If Morton were in doubt before, all his doubts were now scattered, for
a look of irrepressible surprise passed across Speyer's features,
mingled with as much dismay as his nature was capable of feeling. At
the next instant, every trace of it had disappeared; and slowly
shaking his head, to indicate unconsciousness, he looked at Morton
inquiringly, with an eye perfectly self-possessed and impenetrable.
His visitor, however, was not to be so deceived.
"I have no enmity against you, nor any wish to injure you. On the
contrary, I will pay your fine, and set you free, if you will have it
so. You have letters concerning me, written to you by Vinal. Give them
to me, and I will do as I say. No harm shall come to you, and I will
give you money to carry you to any part of the world you wish."
"What letters?" asked Speyer.
"We will have no bush-beating. You wish to get out of jail, and have
good reason for wishing to get out at once. If you will give me those
letters, you shall be free in three hours, and safe. If you will not,
I may give you some trouble."
Speyer was silent for a moment.
"I know the letters are of use to you. You can play a profitable game
with them; but I can stop your game at any moment I please."
"I can get four thousand dollars for them to-morrow," said Speyer.
"Then why are you here in jail?"
"Vinal offers it; here it is." And taking a note from his pocket,
Speyer read Vinal's proposal to buy the letters.
"Let me see it," said Morton, taking the note from Speyer's hand.
"This, of itself, is evidence against him. With your leave, I will
keep it. Now hear my offer. Give me the letters, and I will pay your
fine. Then go with me to Boston, and I will make Vinal pay you on the
spot every dollar that he has offered, on condition that you promise
to leave the United States, and never return."
Speyer reflected. He came to the conclusion that Morton did not mean
to expose Vinal; but only, like himself, to extort money from him; and
wished that he, Speyer, should leave the country in order to get rid
of a competitor. Morton's object was quite different. He could not
foresee to what extremities Speyer's extortion might drive its victim;
and he aimed to check it, by no means out of any tenderness for Vinal,
but lest his wife might suffer from its consequences.
Speyer, on his part, fevered with jealousy, was chafing to be at large
again.
"When will you pay my fine?"
"Now."
"Then I accept your proposal."
"Can I rely on your promise to leave the country, and make no further
drafts on Vinal?"
Speyer cast a glance at him, as if he had read his mind.
"I will promise."
"Will you swear?"
Speyer readily took the oath, insisting that Morton should swear in
turn to keep his part of the condition.
"Now let me see the letters."
"I must send to my lodgings for them. If you will come back in two
hours, you shall have them."
"I should have thought you would keep them by you."
"No; but they are safe. Come back at twelve with the money for my
fine, and they shall be here for you."
Morton had no sooner left the room, than Speyer despatched an
underling of the jail to buy for him a few sheets of the thin,
half-transparent paper in common use for European correspondence. This
being brought, he opened his trunk, and delving to the bottom, drew up
a leather case, from which he took the letters in question. Laying the
thin paper over them, he proceeded to trace with a pen an exact
facsimile. He was well practised at such work, and after one or two
failures, succeeded perfectly. Folding his counterfeits after the
manner of the originals, he placed them in the envelopes belonging to
the latter; and within a half hour after his task was finished, Morton
reappeared.
Speyer gave him one of the facsimiles. He read it attentively, without
seeing the imposture. The handwriting, though disguised, was evidently
Vinal's; but it had neither the signature of the writer, nor Morton's
name. The place of each was supplied by a cipher.
"Reference is made here to another letter. Where is it?"
Speyer gave him the second counterfeit. The envelope bore a postmark
of a few days later than the first. The note contained merely the
names of Morton and Vinal, with ciphers affixed, referring to those in
the first letter.
"Have you no more of Vinal's papers?"
Speyer shook his head. Indeed, the letters, if genuine, would have
been amply sufficient to place their writer in Morton's power. The
latter at once took the necessary measures to gain the prisoner's
release. Speyer no sooner found himself at liberty than he hastened to
search out the fair object of his anxieties, promising to meet Morton
on the steamboat for Boston in the afternoon. His doubts were strong
whether the other would keep faith with him; but he amply consoled
himself with the thought that, at the worst, he still had means to
bring Vinal to terms.