University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
IN WHICH MR. BELCHER EXPRESSES HIS DETERMINATION TO
BECOME A “FOUNDER,” BUT DROPS HIS NOUN IN
FEAR OF A LITTLE VERB OF THE
SAME NAME.

Mrs. Dillingham had a difficult rôle to play. She could
not break with Mr. Belcher without exposing her motives and
bringing herself under unpleasant suspicion and surveillance.
She felt that the safety of her protégè and his father would be
best consulted by keeping peace with their enemy; yet every
approach of the great scoundrel disgusted and humiliated her.
That side of her nature which had attracted and encouraged
him was sleeping, and, under the new motives which were at
work within her, she hoped that it would never wake. She
looked down the devious track of her past, counted over its
unworthy and most unwomanly satisfactions, and wondered.
She looked back to a great wrong which she had once inflicted
on an innocent man, with a self-condemnation so deep that
all the womanhood within her rose into the purpose of reparation.

The boy whom she had called to her side, and fastened by
an impassioned tenderness more powerful even than her wonderful
art, had become to her a fountain of pure motives.
She had a right to love this child. She owed a duty to him
beyond any woman living. Grasping her right, and acknowledging
her duty—a right and duty accorded to her by his
nominal protector—she would not have forfeited them for the
world. They soon became all that gave significance to her
existence, and to them she determined that her life should be

devoted. To stand well with this boy, to be loved, admired
and respected by him, to be to him all that a mother could
be, to be guided by his pure and tender conscience toward her
own reformation, to waken into something like life and nourish
into something like strength the starved motherhood within
her—these became her dominant motives.

Mr. Belcher saw the change in her, but was too gross in his
nature, too blind in his passion, and too vain in his imagined
power, to comprehend it. She was a woman, and had her
whims, he thought. Whims were evanescent, and this particular
whim would pass away. He was vexed by seeing the
boy so constantly with her. He met them walking together
in the street, or straying in the park, hand in hand, or caught
the lad looking at him from her window. He could not doubt
that all this intimacy was approved by Mr. Balfour. Was she
playing a deep game? Could she play it for anybody but
himself—the man who had taken her heart by storm? Her actions,
however, even when interpreted by his self-conceit, gave
him uneasiness. She had grown to be very kind and considerate
toward Mrs. Belcher. Had this friendship moved her to
crush the passion for her husband? Ah! if she could only
know how true he was to her in his untruthfulness!—how
faithful he was to her in his perjury!—how he had saved himself
for the ever-vanishing opportunity!

Many a time the old self-pity came back to the successful
scoundrel. Many a time he wondered why the fate which
had been so kind to him in other things would not open the
door to his wishes in this. With this unrewarded passion
gnawing at his heart, and with the necessity of treating the
wife of his youth with constantly increasing consideration, in
order to cover it from her sight, the General was anything but
a satisfied and happy man. The more he thought upon it,
the more morbid he grew, until it seemed to him that his wife
must look through his hypocritical eyes into his guilty heart.
He grew more and more guarded in his speech. If he mentioned
Mrs. Dillingham's name, he always did it incidentally,

and then only for the purpose of showing that he had no reason
to avoid the mention of it.

There was another thought that preyed upon him. He was
consciously a forger. He had not used the document he had
forged, but he had determined to do so. Law had not laid its
finger upon him, but its finger was over him. He had not yet
crossed the line that made him legally a criminal, but the line
was drawn before him, and only another step would be necessary
to place him beyond it. A brood of fears was gathering
around him. They stood back, glaring upon him from the
distance; but they only waited another act in his career of
dishonor to crowd in and surround him with menace. Sometimes
he shrank from his purpose, but the shame of being impoverished
and beaten spurred him renewedly to determination.
He became conscious that what there was of bravery
in him was sinking into bravado. His self-conceit, and what
little he possessed of self-respect, were suffering. He dimly
apprehended the fact that he was a rascal, and it made him
uncomfortable. It ceased to be enough for him to assure himself
that he was no more a rascal than those around him. He
reached out on every side for means to maintain his self-respect.
What good thing could he do to counterbalance his bad deeds?
How could he shore himself up by public praise, by respectable
associations, by the obligations of the public for deeds of
beneficence? It is the most natural thing in the world for the
dishonest steward, who cheats his lord, to undertake to win
consideration against contingencies with his lord's money.

On the same evening in which the gathering at the Seven-oaks
tavern occurred, preceding Jim's wedding, Mr. Belcher
sat in his library, looking over the document which nominally
conveyed to him the right and title of Paul Benedict to his
inventions. He had done this many times since he had forged
three of the signatures, and secured a fraudulent addition to
the number from the hand of Phipps. He had brought himself
to believe, to a certain extent, in their genuineness, and
was wholly sure that they were employed on behalf of justice.

The inventions had cost Benedict little or no money, and he,
Mr. Belcher, had developed them at his own risk. Without
his money and his enterprise they would have amounted to
nothing. If Benedict had not lost his reason, the document
would have been legally signed. The cause of Benedict's lapse
from sanity did not occur to him. He only knew that if the
inventor had not become insane, he should have secured his
signature at some wretched price, and out of this conviction
he reared his self-justification.

“It's right!” said Mr. Belcher. “The State prison may
be in it, but it's right!”

And then, confirming his foul determination by an oath, he
added:

“I'll stand by it.”

Then he rang his bell, and called for Phipps.

“Phipps,” said he, as his faithful and plastic servitor appeared,
“come in, and close the door.”

When Phipps, with a question in his face, walked up to
where Mr. Belcher was sitting at his desk, with the forged
document before him, the latter said:

“Phipps, did you ever see this paper before?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, think hard—don't be in a hurry—and tell me when
you saw it before. Take it in your hand, and look it all over,
and be sure.”

“I can't tell, exactly,” responded Phipps, scratching his
head; “but I should think it might have been six years
ago, or more. It was a long time before we came from
Sevenoaks.”

“Very well; is that your signature?”

“It is, sir.”

“Did you see Benedict write his name? Did you see
Johnson and Ramsey write their names?”

“I did, sir.”

“Do you remember all the circumstances—what I said to
you, and what you said to me—why you were in the room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Phipps, do you know that if it is ever found out that you
have signed that paper within a few weeks, you are as good as
a dead man?”

“I don't know what you mean, sir,” replied Phipps, in
evident alarm.

“Do you know that that signature is enough to send you
to the State prison?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, Phipps, it is just that, provided it isn't stuck to.
You will have to swear to it, and stand by it. I know the thing
is coming. I can feel it in my bones. Why it hasn't come
before, the Lord only knows.”

Phipps had great faith in the might of money, and entire
faith in Mr. Belcher's power to save him from any calamity.
His master, during all his residence with and devotion to him,
had shown himself able to secure every end he had sought,
and he believed in him, or believed in his power, wholly.

“Couldn't you save me, sir, if I were to get into trouble?”
he inquired, anxiously.

“That depends upon whether you stand by me, Phipps.
It's just here, my boy. If you swear, through thick and thin,
that you saw these men sign this paper, six years ago or more,
that you signed it at the same time, and stand by your own
signature, you will sail through all right, and do me a devilish
good turn. If you balk, or get twisted up in your own reins,
or thrown off your seat, down goes your house. If you stand
by me, I shall stand by you. The thing is all right, and just
as it ought to be, but it's a little irregular. It gives me what
belongs to me, but the law happens to be against it.”

Phipps hesitated, and glanced suspiciously, and even menacingly,
at the paper. Mr. Belcher knew that he would like
to tear it in pieces, and so, without unseemly haste, he picked
it up, placed it in its drawer, locked it in, and put the key in
his pocket.

“I don't want to get into trouble,” said Phipps.

“Phipps,” said Mr. Belcher, in a conciliatory tone, “I
don't intend that you shall get into trouble.”

Then, rising, and patting his servant on the shoulder, he
added:

“But it all depends on your standing by me, and standing
by yourself. You know that you will lose nothing by standing
by the General, Phipps; you know me.”

Phipps was not afraid of crime; he was only afraid of its
possible consequences; and Mr. Belcher's assurance of safety,
provided he should remember his story and adhere to it, was
all that he needed to confirm him in the determination to do
what Mr. Belcher wished him to do.

After Phipps retired, Mr. Belcher took out his document
again, and looked it over for the hundredth time. He recompared
the signatures which he had forged with their originals.
Consciously a villain, he regarded himself still as a
man who was struggling for his rights. But something of his
old, self-reliant courage was gone. He recognized the fact
that there was one thing in the world more powerful than
himself. The law was against him. Single-handed, he could
meet men; but the great power which embodied the justice
and strength of the State awed him, and compelled him into
a realization of his weakness.

The next morning Mr. Belcher received his brokers and
operators in bed in accordance with his custom. He was not
good-natured. His operations in Wall street had not been
prosperous for several weeks. In some way, impossible to be
foreseen by himself or his agents, everything had worked
against him. He knew that if he did not rally from this passage
of ill-luck, he would, in addition to his loss of money,
lose something of his prestige. He had a stormy time with
his advisers and tools, swore a great deal, and sent them off in
anything but a pleasant frame of mind.

Talbot was waiting in the drawing-room when the brokers
retired, and followed his card upstairs, where he found his
principal with an ugly frown upon his face.

“Toll,” he whimpered, “I'm glad to see you. You're
the best of 'em all, and in the long run, you bring me the
most money.”

“Thank you,” responded the factor, showing his white
teeth in a gratified smile.

“Toll, I'm not exactly ill, but I'm not quite myself. How
long it will last I don't know, but just this minute the General
is devilish unhappy, and would sell himself cheap. Things
are not going right. I don't sleep well.”

“You've got too much money,” suggested Mr. Talbot.

“Well, what shall I do with it?”

“Give it to me.”

“No, I thank you; I can do better. Besides, you are
getting more than your share of it now.”

“Well, I don't ask it of you,” said Talbot, “but if you
wish to get rid of it, I could manage a little more of it without
trouble.”

“Toll, look here! The General wants to place a little
money where it will bring him some reputation with the
highly respectable old dons,—our spiritual fathers, you know
—and the brethren. Understand?”

“General, you are deep; you'll have to explain.”

“Well, all our sort of fellows patronize something or other.
They cheat a man out of his eye-teeth one day, and the next,
you hear of them endowing something or other, or making a
speech to a band of old women, or figuring on a top-lofty list
of directors. That's the kind of thing I want.”

“You can get any amount of it, General, by paying for it.
All they want is money; they don't care where it comes
from.”

“Toll, shut up. I behold a vision. Close your eyes now,
and let me paint it for you. I see the General—General
Robert Belcher, the millionaire—in the aspect of a great public
benefactor. He is dressed in black, and sits upon a platform,
in the midst of a lot of seedy men in white chokers.
They hand him a programme. There is speech-making going

on, and every speech makes an allusion to `our benefactor,'
and the brethren and sisters cheer. The General bows.
High old doctors of divinity press up to be introduced.
They are all after more. They flatter the General; they
coddle him. They give him the highest seat. They pretend
to respect him. They defend him from all slanders. They
are proud of the General. He is their man. I look into
the religious newspapers, and in one column I behold a curse
on the stock-jobbing of Wall street, and in the next, the
praise of the beneficence of General Robert Belcher. I see
the General passing down Wall street the next day. I see
him laughing out of the corner of his left eye, while his
friends punch him in the ribs. Oh, Toll! it's delicious!
Where are your feelings, my boy? Why don't you cry?”

“Charming picture, General! Charming! but my handkerchief
is fresh, and I must save it. I may have a cold
before night.”

“Well, now, Toll, what's the thing to be done?”

“What do you say to soup-kitchens for the poor? They
don't cost so very much, and you get your name in the
papers.”

“Soup-kitchens be hanged! That's Mrs. Belcher's job.
Besides, I don't want to get up a reputation for helping the
poor. They're a troublesome lot and full of bother; I don't
believe in 'em. They don't associate you with anybody but
themselves. What I want is to be in the right sort of a crowd.”

“Have you thought of a hospital?”

“Yes, I've thought of a hospital, but I don't seem to hanker
after it. To tell the truth, the hospitals are pretty well
taken up already. I might work into a board of directors by
paying enough, I suppose, but it is too much the regular
thing. What I want is ministers—something religious, you
know.”

“You might run a church-choir,” suggested Talbot, “or,
better than that, buy a church, and turn the crank.”

“Yes, but they are not quite large enough. I tell you

[ILLUSTRATION]

“I'm pining for a Theological Seminary.”

[Description: 590EAF. Illustration page. Image of two men talking. One man is tucked in bed wearing a robe, while the other sits in a chair next to the bed leaning on a cane. There is a tea service on the table next to the bed.]

what it is, Toll, I believe I'm pining for a theological seminary.
Ah, my heart! my heart! If I could only tell you,
Toll, how it yearns over the American people! Can't you see,
my boy, that the hope of the nation is in educated and devoted
young men? Don't you see that we are going to the
devil with our thirst for filthy lucre? Don't you understand
how noble a thing it would be for one of fortune's favorites
to found an institution with his wealth, that would bear down
its blessings to unborn millions? What if that institution
should also bear his name? What if that name should be forever
associated with that which is most hallowed in our national
history? Wouldn't it pay? Eh, Toll?”

Mr. Talbot laughed.

“General, your imagination will be the death of you, but
there is really nothing impracticable in your plan. All these
fellows want is your money. They will give you everything
you want for it in the way of glory.”

“I believe you; and wouldn't it be fun for the General?
I vow I must indulge. I'm getting tired of horses; and these
confounded suppers don't agree with me. It's a theological
seminary or nothing. The tides of my destiny, Toll—you
understand—the tides of my destiny tend in that direction,
and I resign my bark to their sway. I'm going to be a
founder, and I feel better already.”

It was well that he did, for at this moment a dispatch was
handed in which gave him a shock, and compelled him to ask
Talbot to retire while he dressed.

“Don't go away, Toll,” he said; “I want to see you again.”

The dispatch that roused the General from his dream of
beneficence was from his agent at Sevenoaks, and read thus:
“Jim Fenton's wedding occurred this morning. He was accompanied
by a man whom several old citizens firmly believe
to be Paul Benedict, though he passed under another name.
Balfour and Benedict's boy were here, and all are gone up to
Number Nine. Will write particulars.”

The theological seminary passed at once into the realm of

dimly remembered dreams, to be recalled or forgotten as circumstances
should determine. At present, there was something
else to occupy the General's mind.

Before he had completed his toilet, he called for Talbot.

“Toll,” said he, “if you were in need of legal advice of
the best kind, and wanted to be put through a thing straight,
whether it were right or not, to whom would you apply? Now
mind, I don't want any milksops.”

“I know two or three lawyers here who have been through a
theological seminary,” Talbot responded, with a knowing
smile.

“Oh, get out! There's no joke about this. I mean business
now.”

“Well, I took pains to show you your man, at my house,
once. Don't you remember him?”

“Cavendish?”

“Yes.”

“I don't like him.”

“Nor do I. He'll bleed you; but he's your man.”

“All right; I want to see him.”

“Get into my coupè, and I'll take you to his office.”

Mr. Belcher went to the drawer that contained his forged
document. Then he went back to Talbot, and said:

“Would Cavendish come here?”

“Not he! If you want to see him, you must go where he
is. He wouldn't walk into your door to accommodate you if
he knew it.”

Mr. Belcher was afraid of Cavendish, as far as he could be
afraid of any man. The lawyer had bluffed everybody at the
dinner-party, and, in his way, scoffed at everybody. He had
felt in the lawyer's presence the contact of a nature which
possessed more self-assertion and self-assurance than his own.
He had felt that Cavendish could read him, could handle him,
could see through his schemes. He shrank from exposing
himself, even to the scrutiny of this sharp man, whom he
could hire for any service. But he went again to the drawer,

and, with an excited and trembling hand, drew forth the accursed
document. With this he took the autographs on which
his forgeries were based. Then he sat down by himself, and
thought the matter all over, while Talbot waited in another
room. It was only by a desperate determination that he
started at last, called Talbot down stairs, put on his hat, and
went out.

It seemed to the proprietor, as he emerged from his house,
that there was something weird in the morning light. He
looked up, and saw that the sky was clear. He looked down,
and the street was veiled in a strange shadow. The boys
looked at him as if they were half startled. Inquisitive faces
peered at him from a passing omnibus. A beggar laughed as
he held out his greasy hat. Passengers paused to observe him.
All this attention, which he once courted and accepted as
flattery and fame, was disagreeable to him.

“Good God! Toll, what has happened since last night?”
he said, as he sank back upon the satin cushions of the coupè.

“General, I don't think you're quite well. Don't die
now. We can't spare you yet.”

“Die? Do I look like it?” exclaimed Mr. Belcher, slapping
his broad chest. “Don't talk to me about dying. I
have n't thought about that yet.”

“I beg your pardon. You know I didn't mean to distress
you.”

Then the conversation dropped, and the carriage wheeled
on. The roll of vehicles, the shouting of drivers, the panoramic
scenes, the flags swaying in the morning sky, the busy
throngs that went up and down Broadway, were but the sights
and sounds of a dimly apprehended dream. He was journeying
toward guilt. What would be its end? Would he not
be detected in it at the first step? How could he sit before
the hawk-eyed man whom he was about to meet without in
some way betraying his secret?

When the coupè stopped, Talbot roused his companion
with difficulty.

“This can't be the place, Toll. We haven't come half a
mile.”

“On the contrary, we have come three miles.”

“It can't be possible, Toll. I must look at your horse.
I'd no idea you had such an animal.”

Then Mr. Belcher got out, and looked the horse over.
He was a connoisseur, and he stood five minutes on the curb-stone,
expatiating upon those points of the animal that
pleased him.

“I believe you came to see Mr. Cavendish,” suggested
Talbot with a laugh.

“Yes, I suppose I must go up. I hate lawyers, any way.”

They climbed the stairway. They knocked at Mr. Cavendish's
door. A boy opened it, and took in their cards. Mr.
Cavendish was busy, but would see them in fifteen minutes.
Mr. Belcher sat down in the ante-room, took a newspaper
from his pocket, and began to read. Then he took a pen
and scribbled, writing his own name with three other names,
across which he nervously drew his pen. Then he drew forth
his knife, and tremblingly dressed his finger-nails. Having
completed this task, he took out a large pocket-book, withdrew
a blank check, filled and signed it, and put it back.
Realizing, at last, that Talbot was waiting to go in with him,
he said:

“By the way, Toll, this business of mine is private.”

“Oh, I understand,” said Talbot; “I'm only going in to
make sure that Cavendish remembers you.”

What Talbot really wished to make sure of was, that
Cavendish should know that he had brought him his client.

At last they heard a little bell which summoned the boy,
who soon returned to say that Mr. Cavendish would see them.
Mr. Belcher looked around for a mirror, but discovering
none, said:

“Toll, look at me! Am I all right? Do you see anything
out of the way?”

Talbot having looked him over, and reported favorably,

they followed the boy into the penetralia of the great office,
and into the presence of the great man. Mr. Cavendish did
not rise, but leaned back in his huge, carved chair, and rubbed
his hands, pale in their morning whiteness, and said, coldly:

“Good morning, gentlemen; sit down.”

Mr. Talbot declined. He had simply brought to him his
friend, General Belcher, who, he believed, had a matter of
business to propose. Then, telling Mr. Belcher that he
should leave the coupè at his service, he retired.

Mr. Belcher felt that he was already in court. Mr. Cavendish
sat behind his desk in a judicial attitude, with his new
client fronting him. The latter fell, or tried to force himself,
into a jocular mood and bearing, according to his custom on
serious occasions.

“I am likely to have a little scrimmage,” said he, “and I
shall want your help, Mr. Cavendish.”

Saying this, he drew forth a check for a thousand dollars,
which he had drawn in the ante-room, and passed it over to
the lawyer. Mr. Cavendish took it up listlessly, held it by
its two ends, read its face, examined its back, and tossed it
into a drawer, as if it were a suspicious sixpence.

“It's a thousand dollars,” said Mr. Belcher, surprised that
the sum had apparently made no impression.

“I see—a retainer—thanks!”

All the time the hawk-eyes were looking into Mr. Belcher.
All the time the scalp was moving backward and forward, as
if he had just procured a new one, that might be filled up
before night, but for the moment was a trifle large. All the
time there was a subtle scorn upon the lips, the flavor of
which the finely curved nose apprehended with approval.

“What's the case, General?”

The General drew from his pocket his forged assignment,
and passed it into the hand of Mr. Cavendish.

“Is that a legally constructed document?” he inquired.

Mr. Cavendish read it carefully, every word. He looked
at the signatures. He looked at the blank page on the back.

He looked at the tape with which it was bound. He fingered
the knot with which it was tied. He folded it carefully, and
handed it back.

`Yes—absolutely perfect,” he said. “Of course I know
nothing about the signatures. Is the assignor living?”

“That is precisely what I don't know,” replied Mr. Belcher.
“I supposed him to be dead for years. I have now
reason to suspect that he is living.”

“Have you been using these patents?

“Yes, and I've made piles of money on them.”

“Is your right contested?”

“No; but I have reason to believe that it will be.”

“What reason?” inquired Mr. Cavendish, sharply.

Mr. Belcher was puzzled.

“Well, the man has been insane, and has forgotten, very
likely, what he did before his insanity. I have reason to
believe that such is the case, and that he intends to contest
my right to the inventions which this paper conveys to me.”

“What reason, now?”

Mr. Belcher's broad expanse of face crimsoned into a blush,
and he simply answered:

“I know the man.”

“Who is his lawyer?”

“Balfour.”

Mr. Cavendish gave a little start.

“Let me see that paper again,” said he.

After looking it through again, he said, dryly:

“I know Balfour. He is a shrewd man, and a good lawyer:
and unless he has a case, or thinks he has one, he will
not fight this document. What deviltry there is in it, I don't
know, and I don't want you to tell me. I can tell you
that you have a hard man to fight. Where are these witnesses?”

“Two of them are dead. One of them is living, and is
now in the city.”

“What can he swear to?”

“He can swear to his own signature, and to all the rest.
He can relate and swear to all the circumstances attending the
execution of the paper.”

“And you know that these rights were never previously
conveyed.”

“Yes, I know they never were.”

“Then, mark you, General, Balfour has no case at all—
provided this isn't a dirty paper. If it is a dirty paper, and
you want me to serve you, keep your tongue to yourself.
You've recorded it, of course.”

“Recorded it?” inquired Mr. Belcher in an alarm which
he did not attempt to disguise.

“You don't mean to tell me that this paper has been
in existence more than six years, and has not been recorded?”

“I didn't know it was necessary.”

Mr. Cavendish tossed the paper back to the owner of it with
a sniff of contempt.

“It isn't worth that!” said he, snapping his fingers.

Then he drew out the check from his drawer, and handed
it back to Mr. Belcher.

“There's no case, and I don't want your money,” said he.

“But there is a case!” said Mr. Belcher, fiercely, scared
out of his fear. “Do you suppose I am going to be cheated
out of my rights without a fight? I'm no chicken, and I'll
spend half a million before I'll give up my rights.”

Mr. Cavendish laughed.

“Well, go to Washington,” said he, “and if you don't find
that Balfour or somebody else has been there before you, I
shall be mistaken. Balfour isn't very much of a chicken, and
he knows enough to know that the first assignment recorded
there holds. Why has he not been down upon you before this?
Simply because he saw that you were making money for his
client, and he preferred to take it all out of you in a single
slice. I know Balfour, and he carries a long head.
Chicken!”

Mr. Belcher was in distress. The whole game was as obvious
and real to him as if he had assured himself of its truth.
He staggered to his feet. He felt the hand of ruin upon him.
He believed that while he had been perfecting his crime he
had been quietly overreached. He lost his self-command, and
gave himself up to profanity and bluster, at which Mr. Cavendish
laughed.

“There's no use in that sort of thing, General,” said he.
“Go to Washington. Ascertain for yourself about it, and if
you find it as I predict, make the best of it. You can
make a compromise of some sort. Do the best you can.”

There was one thing that Mr. Cavendish had noticed.
Mr. Belcher had made no response to him when he told
him that if the paper was a dirty one he did not wish to know
it. He had made up his mind that there was mischief in it,
somewhere. Either the consideration had never been paid,
or the signatures were fraudulent, or perhaps the paper had
been executed when the assignor was demonstrably of unsound
mind. Somewhere, he was perfectly sure, there was
fraud.

“General,” said he, “I have my doubts about this paper.
I'm not going to tell you why. I understand that there
is one witness living who will swear to all these signatures.”

“There is.”

“Is he a credible witness? Has he ever committed a
crime? Can anything wrong be proved against him?”

“The witness,” responded Mr. Belcher, “is my man
Phipps; and a more faithful fellow never lived. I've known
him for years, and he was never in an ugly scrape in his life.”

“Well, if you find that no one is before you on the records,
come back; and when you come you may as well multiply that
check by ten. When I undertake a thing of this kind, I like
to provide myself against all contingencies.”

Mr. Belcher groaned, and tore up the little check that
seemed so large when he drew it, and had shrunk to such contemptible
dimensions in the hands of the lawyer.

“You lawyers put the lancet in pretty deep.”

“Our clients never do!” said Mr. Cavendish through his
sneering lips.

Then the boy knocked, and came in. There was another
gentleman who wished to see the lawyer.

“I shall go to Washington to-day, and see you on my return,”
said Mr. Belcher.

Then, bidding the lawyer a good-morning, he went out, ran
down the stairs, jumped into Mr. Talbot's waiting coupè, and
ordered himself driven home. Arriving there, he hurriedly
packed a satchel, and, announcing to Mrs. Belcher that he
had been unexpectedly called to Washington, went out, and
made the quickest passage possible to Jersey City. As he
had Government contracts on hand, his wife asked no questions,
and gave the matter no thought.

The moment Mr. Belcher found himself on the train, and
in motion, he became feverishly excited. He cursed himself
that he had not attended to this matter before. He had wondered
why Balfour was so quiet. With Benedict alive and in
communication, or with Benedict dead, and his heir in charge,
why had he made no claim upon rights which were the basis
of his own fortune? There could be but one answer to these
questions, and Cavendish had given it!

He talked to himself, and attracted the attention of those
around him. He walked the platforms at all the stations
where the train stopped. He asked the conductor a dozen
times at what hour the train would arrive in Washington,
apparently forgetting that he had already received his information.
He did not reach his destination until evening, and
then, of course, all the public offices were closed. He met
men whom he knew, but he would not be tempted by them
into a debauch. He went to bed early, and, after a weary
night of sleeplessness, found himself at the Patent Office before
a clerk was in his place.

When the offices were opened, he sought his man, and revealed
his business. He prepared a list of the patents in

which he was interested, and secured a search of the records
of assignment. It was a long time since the patents had been
issued, and the inquisition was a tedious one; but it resulted,
to his unspeakable relief, in the official statement that no one
of them had ever been assigned. Then he brought out his
paper, and, with a blushing declaration that he had not known
the necessity of its record until the previous day, saw the assignment
placed upon the books.

Then he was suddenly at ease. Then he could look about
him. A great burden was rolled from his shoulders, and he
knew that he ought to be jolly; but somehow his spirits did
not rise. As he emerged from the Patent Office, there was
the same weird light in the sky that he had noticed the day
before, on leaving his house with Talbot. The great dome of
the Capitol swelled in the air like a bubble, which seemed as
if it would burst. The broad, hot streets glimmered as if a
volcano were breeding under them. Everything looked unsubstantial.
He found himself watching for Balfour, and
expecting to meet him at every corner. He was in a new
world, and had not become wonted to it—the world of conscious
crime—the world of outlawry. It had a sun of its own,
fears of its own, figures and aspects of its own. There was a
new man growing up within him, whom he wished to hide.
To this man's needs his face had not yet become hardened,
his words had not yet been trained beyond the danger of
betrayal, his eyes had not adjusted their pupils for vision and
self-suppression.

He took the night train home, breakfasted at the Astor, and
was the first man to greet Mr. Cavendish when that gentleman
entered his chambers. Mr. Cavendish sat listlessly, and heard
his story. The lawyer's hands were as pale, his scalp as uneasy,
and his lips as redolent of scorn as they were two days
before, while his nose bent to sniff the scorn with more evident
approval than then. He apprehended more thoroughly
the character of the man before him, saw more clearly
the nature of his business, and wondered with contemptuous

incredulity that Balfour had not been sharper and
quicker.

After Mr. Belcher had stated the facts touching the Washington
records, Mr. Cavendish said:

“Well, General, as far as appearances go, you have the
lead. Nothing but the overthrow of your assignment can
damage you, and, as I told you the day before yesterday, if
the paper is dirty, don't tell me of it—that is, if you want
me to do anything for you. Go about your business, say
nothing to anybody, and if you are prosecuted, come to
me.”

Still Mr. Belcher made no response to the lawyer's suggestion
touching the fraudulent nature of the paper; and the latter
was thoroughly confirmed in his original impression that
there was something wrong about it.

Then Mr. Belcher went out upon Wall street, among his
brokers, visited the Exchange, visited the Gold Room, jested
with his friends, concocted schemes, called upon Talbot,
wrote letters, and filled up his day. Going home to dinner,
he found a letter from his agent at Sevenoaks, giving in detail
his reasons for supposing not only that Benedict had been in
the village, but that, from the time of his disappearance from
the Sevenoaks poor-house, he had been living at Number
Nine with Jim Fenton. Balfour had undoubtedly found him
there, as he was in the habit of visiting the woods. Mike
Conlin must also have found him there, and worst of all, Sam
Yates must have discovered him. The instruments that he
had employed, at a considerable cost, to ascertain whether
Benedict were alive or dead had proved false to him. The
discovery that Sam Yates was a traitor made him tremble. It
was from him that he had procured the autographs on which
two of his forgeries were based. He sat down immediately,
and wrote a friendly letter to Yates, putting some business
into his hands, and promising more. Then he wrote to his
agent, telling him of his interest in Yates, and of his faithful
service, and directing him to take the reformed man under

his wing, and, as far as possible, to attach him to the interests
of the concern.

Two days afterward, he looked out of his window and saw
Mr. Balfour descending the steps of his house with a traveling
satchel in his hand. Calling Phipps, he directed him to jump
into the first cab, or carriage, pay double price, and make his
way to the ferry that led to the Washington cars, see if Balfour
crossed at that point, and learn, if possible, his destination.
Phipps returned in an hour and a half with the information
that the lawyer had bought a ticket for Washington.

Then Mr. Belcher knew that trouble was brewing, and
braced himself to meet it. In less than forty-eight hours,
Balfour would know, either that he had been deceived by
Benedict, or that a forgery had been committed. Balfour was
cautious, and would take time to settle this question in his
own mind.