Helen Ford

“You are richer than you were,” said Margaret, in the same tone. “It must have been an important service which has been so liberally rewarded.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Jacob, with the apprehension of guilt, regarding her uneasily.

“Mean!” repeated Margaret, as if surprised at the question, “what should I mean? I merely expressed my surprise at your having so large a sum by you. I should judge,” she continued, carelessly, “that there might be a thousand dollars there.”

Jacob’s agitation increased with every word that Margaret uttered. Conscious that he had committed a crime which made him liable to severe legal penalties, the significant words of the woman he had wronged excited in his mind a fear that, in some manner unknown to him, she had become cognizant of it.

So does “Conscience make cowards of us all.”

How much more so in the case of the scrivener, who was cowardly at the best.

“I must insist upon knowing what you mean by these insinuations,” he said, with ill-concealed anxiety.

“Insinuations, Jacob Wynne! What have I insinuated?”

“Why, then, do you speak in this manner?” said he, hesitatingly; “this money—belongs to a friend.”

“Indeed!” said Margaret, looking at him steadily; “and I suppose you merely offered to count it over for him.”

“Well, and if I did,” said the scrivener, plucking up a little courage; “have you any objections to offer?”

“I! What objection could I possibly have? You know I have no longer a right to object to anything which you may see fit to do. By the way, you spoke of removing. When do you go?”

This cool self-possession and absence of emotion on Margaret’s part puzzled Jacob, and alarmed him more than threats of vengeance would have done. He found it impossible to understand her.

“I don’t know,” he said, evasively, “I can’t tell. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” she answered, with a meaning look, “I may wish to call upon you again. There is nothing strange in my desiring occasionally to call upon an old acquaintance; is there, Jacob?”

He muttered something which was inaudible.

“But I fear I am taking up too much of your time. You know I have no further claim upon you. Farewell, Jacob, I shall not lose sight of you.”

“Stay,” said Jacob, who had been considerably alarmed, and who was still apprehensive that she might know more than he desired, “have you any money?”

“Yes,” said Margaret, “I have this.”

She displayed the half dollar, or rather what remained of it, after discharging her fare in the omnibus.

“That is very little. Take this.”

He took a gold piece from the pile that lay on the table, and handed it to her. “Come, let us part friends.”

“You forget, Jacob, that this gold is not yours. It belongs to a friend.”

“Never mind,” he muttered, “I can replace it.”

“No,” said she, decidedly, “I will not take it. I have no claim upon you.”

She rose and passed out of the room, Jacob looking after her with an air of mingled doubt, apprehension, and perplexity.

“I wish I knew,” he said to himself, “whether she has discovered anything. But it can’t be possible. She appears strangely enough. Perhaps her mind is unhinged by what I have told her. But I never could have got on with her weighing me down. We must not meet again if it can be avoided.”

Jacob resolved to remove on the very next day to the more comfortable room, which he considered suited to the improvement in his circumstances.

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE DENUNCIATION

If Margaret had been calm in her interview with Jacob Wynne, it was an unnatural calmness. Beneath the surface there were eddies of passionate emotion which must, sooner or later, force their way to the light.

A sudden revulsion of feeling swept over her when, relieved from the restraint which she had put upon herself in Jacob’s presence, she found herself standing alone on the sidewalk beneath. Her strength, which had been only kept up thus far by excitement, now gave way utterly, and she leaned, faint and exhausted, against the side of the building. Even that proved an insufficient support. Her limbs tottered, and she fell upon the pavement.

When consciousness returned, she found herself surrounded by a crowd of persons, most of whom had been attracted by curiosity, and only one or two of whom proved of real service.

“Are you feeling better?” inquired a motherly-looking woman, gazing compassionately at the wan and wasted features of Margaret.

“Where am I?” asked Margaret, looking half bewildered at the questioner.

“You have fainted on the sidewalk. I am afraid you are not strong.”

“No. I have been sick. But I remember now. I should like to see a lawyer.”

Even in her weakness and physical prostration, she had not lost sight of what must henceforth be her object—revenge upon him whose perfidy and utter heartlessness she had now so fully proved.

“You mean a doctor,” said the woman, a little surprised.

“No,” repeated Margaret, with a touch of impatience in her voice. “I want a lawyer.”

At this moment, a man in a white hat and with a very bland expression upon his features, which, however, could not boast a remarkable degree of beauty, elbowed his way vigorously through the crowd. With a graceful inclination, Mr. Sharp, whom the reader will already have recognized from the description given, proclaimed that he was an humble attorney at her service.

“If you are a lawyer, I wish to consult you, but not before so many people,” said Margaret, glancing at the curious faces of the bystanders.

“I will procure a carriage, madam,” said Mr. Sharp, with his usual affability, “and we will proceed at once to my office, where we shall run no risk of being disturbed.”

This course was accordingly taken, somewhat to the disappointment of certain good people, who were burning for a solution of the mystery which they were convinced existed somewhere.

In a few minutes Margaret was installed in Mr. Sharp’s office, and that gentleman, with professional zeal and a lively hope that the lady before him might prove a more profitable client than the state of her attire seemed to promise, waited patiently for his visitor to announce her business.

Margaret seemed to be lost in reflection, as if her mind were not wholly made up about some matter. Fearing that she might not broach the subject at all, and that he might thus lose the chance of the client which fate seemed to have thrown in his way just as he had lost Lewis Rand, Mr. Sharp thought it best to give her a gentle hint.

“As a lawyer, madam, I shall be glad to exert myself in your behalf to the best of my professional ability. Will you have the kindness, as soon as your strength is sufficiently restored, to state your case?”

Margaret aroused from her stupor. “Can you tell me,” she asked, abruptly, “what punishment the law provides for forgery?”

The lawyer was taken by surprise. He wondered if his visitor had committed, or perchance was contemplating such a crime, and wished to learn how great a risk it involved.

“Forgery did I understand you to say, madam?” he inquired, partly with a view to gain time.