BURGOYNE FACES THE MUSIC
Captain Ralph Burgoyne, installed at the _Hôtel Bristol_, in Paris,
awaited young Richard Shrewsbury’s arrival with about as much
pleasure as a dentist’s patient, sitting in a luxuriously-appointed
reception-room awaits the summons to that other room in which the
practical part of the business is transacted. He had been in some tight
places in his life, he said to himself, but never in a hole which was
so absolutely detestable to all his tastes and ideas as this was.
He had been in action more than once; he had known the tortures of
hunger in one continent and the agonies of thirst in another; he was
not quite sure whether he would not have undergone battle, thirst and
hunger again rather than tell young Dick Shrewsbury what he had to tell
him. For Burgoyne knew that the lad believed in Carsdale and in Mrs.
Walsingham, and like all simple and honest men, he hated to be obliged
to prove to a very young man that the pillars on which the edifice of
his trust had rested were of uncommonly rotten clay. That revelation,
that discovery, might, he felt, sour and embitter the youngster for
life. But--it had to be done.
It was all the harder to do because of Richard’s high spirits. It was
late at night when he arrived, but nothing would content him but to
drag Burgoyne out in order to get a glimpse of this wonderful Paris
at once, especially at midnight. He kept Burgoyne out of bed until an
unholy hour; even then, when they had got to their rooms, he began to
be inquisitive about Burgoyne’s reasons for fetching him over.
“Business, of course,” he said.
“Well, of course, I don’t know anything about business, but whatever it
is, depend on me, old chap. Carsdale said it must be business--you’d a
lot better have had Carsdale here, Burgoyne. But what is it, anyway?
Your company, I expect.”
Burgoyne succeeded in producing a prodigious yawn.
“Oh, to-morrow!” he said. “Time enough to-morrow--I’m half asleep.”
But he slept little when he got to his bed and his countenance was
melancholy when he met Richard at breakfast. The younger man rallied
his senior on it, and Burgoyne made an excuse about his liver. The
truth was that he was fighting down an inclination to put off the evil
moment; as he looked at the boy’s young and eager face he felt as if
he were going to stab him in the back. And yet, Heaven knew, he was
only anxious, desperately anxious, to save him from a fate at the mere
thought of which he himself shuddered.
“Hang it all, pull yourself together, man!” he said, addressing
himself, and cursing his own cowardice. “The thing’s got to be done,
and it’s best to do it at once.”
He carefully engineered his charge to the Bois du Boulogne when they
went out after breakfast, and got him to himself on a seat in a quiet
corner. The air was full of summer, and the trees were green, and there
was water splashing like diamond sprays in the sunlight, and there
were children and their nursemaids about, and everything was gay and
pleasant, and Burgoyne miserably contrasted it with the sordid story
which it was laid upon him to unfold. And suddenly, after he had spent
some silent moments in tracing patterns upon the gravel at his feet,
he burst into his subject, violently and awkwardly.
“I say, Shrewsbury!” he said. “About this--this business that I asked
you to come over and see me about, you know.”
“Yes?” answered Richard.
“I--you see, it wasn’t about my business that I wanted to speak to
you,” said Burgoyne. “It was about--yours.”
Richard turned from the contemplation of a nursemaid, who was flirting
with a portly policeman, to stare at his companion in astonishment.
“Mine?” he said.
“Yes, by Jove, yours!” replied Burgoyne. “I--look here, youngster, you
look on me as a friend, don’t you? You trust me, eh?”
Richard stared more than ever. Then, with a sudden impulse, he
stretched out a hand and laid it on the elder man’s arm.
“Dear old chap!” he said. “I look on you as--why, as a sort of second
father. Of course!”
“I’m deuced glad to hear it, boy,” said Burgoyne, fervently. “Deuced
glad! It--it makes it come easier, what I’ve got to say. Got to say,
you understand, Dick? I don’t want to say it--hate to say it, by
Gad!--but I’ve got to.”
Richard began to have an idea that something as unpleasant as it seemed
to be important was in the air.
“What is it, Burgoyne?” he asked quietly.
“It--it’s a damned nasty thing to have to talk about, sir,” said
Burgoyne, viciously assaulting the gravel with his walking-cane. “I
wish I could talk of something else. It’s about--about Mrs. Walsingham.”
Richard stiffened.
“What about Mrs. Walsingham?” he asked. “Remember, I’m engaged to be
married to her.”
“I do remember it, sir, and that’s what makes things so confounded
awkward, and--and ugly,” said Burgoyne. “It’s only because I’m--fond
of you, and anxious about you, and all that, don’t you know, that I’m
speaking to you. You see, I know what you don’t know. It’s--it’s about
that damned diamond necklace, which I wish to Heaven I’d never seen.”
Richard was staring at a fountain which was throwing up sprays of
liquid fire amongst the trees in front of them. He knew by that time
that Burgoyne had some revelation to make to him; he guessed from his
manner and his reluctance that it was something unpleasant.
“You’d better tell me straight out what all this is,” he said.
“Then I’ll ask you to understand that every word I’m going to say
to you is the truth, lad,” said Burgoyne, emphatically. “Not what I
believe to be the truth, but the absolute, provable truth. Every word
that I say to you can be substantiated. You know that I left my diamond
necklace in pledge with Barclay Leverton.”
“Yes,” replied Richard.
“You were with me when I redeemed it--or thought I did--from Leverton’s
executors--his daughter and his solicitor?”
“I was.”
“What I got there wasn’t my necklace at all,” said Burgoyne. “It was
a paste imitation. I found that out the morning I went with you to
Levanter’s, in Bond Street, to buy that ring. Or, rather, Levanter
found it out. Paste, sir! I didn’t say a word to you, but I had some
suspicion, and I began to make inquiries. My necklace, Dick, had been
stolen while it was in Barclay Leverton’s possession, though he knew
nothing about it. And--take it steady, my boy, hard though it is!--it
was stolen by Mrs. Walsingham. That’s the absolute truth--truth!”
Richard made no answer. He, too, leaned forward and began to trace
unmeaning patterns in the gravel. And Burgoyne, scarcely daring to look
at him, went on hurriedly.
“The real necklace, sir, my necklace, was stolen by Mrs. Walsingham
from Barclay Leverton’s safe,” he continued. “She pawned it at once.
She got it back after I returned home; she had it in her possession all
the time I had the paste thing--which she got made--at Levanter’s. What
I sold you was the paste thing, and I knew it at the time. Your cheque
is here, in my pocket-book--see, here it is, and there you are--you
can tear it up, or keep it, or do what you like with it. It was by
selling you that paste affair that we found out the truth, or, rather,
established it.”
“‘We’?” said Richard. “Whom do you mean by ‘we’?”
“Blair and myself. We laid the trap--we knew, really, by then, but for
your sake, we wanted to make absolutely certain,” replied Burgoyne.
“I’ll tell you all the details--you’ll see, then, youngster, that
you’re getting the truth, ugly as it is. And I hope I shall never be
mixed up in such a dirty business in my life again, sir, never!”
Richard sat in stony silence while Burgoyne told him the whole story.
He knew Burgoyne: he knew he was hearing the truth. And he was
conscious, all the time that he listened, of a certain feeling of
restored freedom. He had often realized, in moments when he had time to
think calmly, that he had asked Mrs. Walsingham to marry him through
sheer impulse, and, in spite of a naturally loyal disposition, he had
been tempted to ask himself if he would have made her that offer in a
calmer mood. Now, he knew that he would never marry her, and he asked
himself whether he was glad or sorry to know it.
“There, that’s all, and now I’ve done my duty!” said Burgoyne, when he
had made an end. “Gad, sir, it’s the most unpleasant thing I’ve ever
done in my life--but, my lad, it’s what your father would have had me
do, don’t you know.”
Richard laid his hand on Burgoyne’s arm and pressed it.
“Thank you, Burgoyne,” he said. “I know you. Now, why didn’t you tell
me all this in London? Why get me over here?”
“We thought it best, Blair and I,” answered Burgoyne. “We thought you’d
better be clear of things for a day or two, while Blair spoke to--her.”
“Ah!” said Richard. “So Blair is going to speak to--her?”
“He is, sir,” said Burgoyne. “My boy, don’t you see, you must be got
out of the hands of those two. You’ve taken this well--you’re a good
lad--and you must hear me out. You must have no more to do with this
woman, or with Carsdale.”
“Carsdale?” exclaimed Richard. “Carsdale!”
Burgoyne was quick to note the surprise in the lad’s tones; he was
somehow conscious of a shrewd suspicion that Richard would feel it more
to hear of Carsdale’s treachery than of the woman’s.
“Yes,” he said. “I know you’ve a great belief in Carsdale. But it’s
no use denying it, Dick, the man has a bad reputation. You don’t know
all that I know. To keep up any business relations with him is to be
cheated in the end--perhaps ruined. Indeed, my boy, you don’t know!”
Richard stood up; a far-away look came into his eyes, and his lip
curled.
“It seems to me,” he said, slowly and bitterly, “it seems to me,
Burgoyne, that I don’t know anything. I have had one blow this
morning--now I get another. I have trusted in Carsdale fully. He
was kind and obliging to me when I came, a stranger, and my bankers
complimented me on the excellent investments he made for me. I’ve never
found him untrustworthy in anything.”
Burgoyne groaned and shook his head.
“My dear Dick!” he said. “My dear boy! I know how beastly it is to hear
these things. But I’m telling you the truth--I’ve wormed things out
for your sake. Carsdale is a deep dog--a crafty dog, sir. It has never
struck you that from every one of the tradesmen he took you to he would
get a very handsome commission; it has never occurred to you that it
was his policy at first to make those investments so as to establish
confidence. But now, tell me, Dick, as you’d tell your father--have you
ever entrusted money to him to do as he liked with?”
“Yes--ten thousand pounds,” replied Richard promptly.
“You’ll never see it again, my lad, you’ll never see it again!”
exclaimed Burgoyne. “Tell me further, since we’re at it--have you ever
signed any papers for him that you didn’t read?”
“I signed some papers yesterday afternoon,” answered Richard. “I didn’t
read them.”
“Oh, my God!” said Burgoyne. “I wish I’d spoken sooner. Boy, the
man’s a swindler! He defrauded Leverton out of a considerable sum of
money--Frances Leverton has found it out, she’s going to hold it over
him--hold the threat of prosecution over him, I mean--for your sake.”
Richard flushed.
“For my sake?” he said. “Miss Leverton?”
“Winch is tackling him to-day on it,” answered Burgoyne. “It’s the only
hold we have on him. If he doesn’t give up all connection with you,
release everything he has of yours, they’ll prosecute him on the other
matter. It was the only way, lad. If your friends don’t save you from
the fellow, you’ll be ruined--ruined! I got you over here to keep you
out of the way while--while Blair and Miss Leverton did what they could
with the woman and him. What is it, boy?”
Richard was sternly motioning him to rise.
“Come on, Burgoyne,” he said. “I’m off back to London. You all mean
well--kindly--all of you. But I’ll fight for myself, though I won’t
refuse the help of any of you. You meant well, old chap, but oh, why
didn’t you tell me of this on the spot? Come on--let’s be off!”
But Burgoyne had a business appointment for the afternoon which he was
bound to keep, and it was not until late in the evening that they could
leave Paris. Richard fumed and fretted at the delay, and was moody and
taciturn throughout the journey. It was early morning when they reached
Charing Cross and turned into the hotel for breakfast. And there
Burgoyne, taking up a morning newspaper, saw the first brief news of
what had happened on the previous evening at Mrs. Walsingham’s flat.