58. CHAPTER LVIII.
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 manœuvre 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.
