"No, no," she cried, hastily; "let me get away--let me get away from here-you cruel, cruel man!"
She tottered to the door, and got to her carriage, she scarcely knew how, without the information she went for.
The bill-broker was no fool; he saw now how the land lay; he followed her down the stairs, and tried to stammer excuses.
"Charing Cross Hotel," said she faintly, and laid her face against the cushion to avoid the sight of him.
When she got home, she cried bitterly at her feminine weakness and her incapacity; and she entered this pitiable failure in her journal with a severity our male readers will hardly, we think, be disposed to imitate; and she added, by way of comment: "Is this how I carry out my poor Robert's precept: Be obstinate as a man; be supple as a woman?"
That night she consulted her father on this difficulty, so slight to any but an inexperienced girl. He told her there must be a report of the trial in the newspapers, and the report would probably mention the counsel; she had better consult a file.
Then the thing was where to find a file. After one or two failures, the British Museum was suggested. She went thither, and could not get in to read without certain formalities. While these were being complied with, she was at a stand-still.
That same evening came a line from Arthur Wardlaw:
"DEAREST HELEN-- I hear from Mr. Adams that you desire to know the name of the counsel who defended Robert Penfold. It was Mr. Tollemache. He has chambers in Lincoln's Inn.
"Ever devotedly yours, "ARTHUR WARDLAW."
Helen was touched with this letter, and put it away indorsed with a few words of gratitude and esteem; and copied it into her diary, and remarked: "This is one more warning not to judge hastily. Arthur's agitation was probably only great emotion at the sudden mention of one whose innocence he believes, and whose sad fate distresses him." She wrote back and thanked him sweetly, and in terms that encouraged a visit.
Next day she went to Mr. Tollemache. A seedy man followed her at a distance. Mr. Tollemache was not at his chambers, nor expected till four o'clock. He was in court. She left her card, and wrote on it in pencil that she would call at four.
She went at ten minutes after four. Mr. Tollemache declined, through his clerk, to see her if she was a client; he could only be approached by her solicitor. She felt inclined to go away and cry; but this time she remembered she was to be obstinate as a man and supple as a woman. She wrote on a card: "I am not a client of Mr. Tollemache, but a lady deeply interested in obtaining some information, which Mr. Tollemache can with perfect propriety give me. I trust to his courtesy as a gentleman not to refuse me a short interview."
"Admit the lady," said a sharp little voice.
She was ushered in, and found Mr. Tollemache standing before the fire.
"Now, madam, what can I do for you?"
"Some years ago you defended Mr. Robert Penfold; he was accused of forgery."
"Oh, was he? I think I remember something about it. A banker's clerk--wasn't he?"
"Oh, no, sir. A clergyman."
"A clergyman? I remember it perfectly. He was convicted."
"Do you think he was guilty, sir?"
"There was a strong case against him."
"I wish to sift that case."
"Indeed. And you want to go through the papers."
"What papers, sir?"
"The brief for the defense."
"Yes," said Helen, boldly, "would you trust me with that, sir? Oh, if you knew how deeply I am interested!" The tears were in her lovely eyes.
"The brief has gone back to the solicitor, of course. I dare say he will let you read it upon a proper representation."
"Thank you, sir. Will you tell me who is the solicitor, and where he lives?"
"Oh, I can't remember who was the solicitor. That is the very first thing you ought to have ascertained. It was no use coming to me."
"Forgive me for troubling you, sir," said Helen, with a deep sigh.
"Not at all, madam; I am only sorry I cannot be of more service. But do let me advise you to employ your solicitor to make these preliminary inquiries. Happy to consult with him, and re-open the matter should he discover any fresh evidence." He bowed her out, and sat down to a brief while she was yet in sight.
She turned away heart-sick. The advice she had received was good; but she shrank from baring her heart to her father's solicitor.
She sat disconsolate awhile, then ordered another cab, and drove to Wardlaw's office. It was late, and Arthur was gone home; so, indeed, was everybody, except one young subordinate, who was putting up the shutters.
"Sir," said she, "can you tell me where old Mr. Penfold lives?"
"Somewhere in the subbubs, miss."
"Yes, sir; but where?"
"I think it is out Pimlico way."
"Could you not give me the street? I would beg you to accept a present if you could."
This sharpened the young gentleman's wits; he went in and groped here and there till he found the address, and gave it her: No. 3, Fairfield Cottages, Primrose Lane, Pimlico. She gave him a sovereign, to his infinite surprise and delight, and told the cabman to drive to the hotel.
The next moment the man who had followed her was chatting familiarly with the subordinate, and helping him to put up the shutters.
"I say, ****," said the youngster, "Penfolds is up in the market; a duchess was here just now, and gave me a soy, to tell her where he lived.
Wait a moment till I spit on it for luck."
The agent, however, did not wait to witness that interesting ceremony. He went back to his hansom round the corner, and drove at once to Arthur Wardlaw's house with the information.
Helen noted down Michael Penfold's address in her diary, and would have gone to him that evening, but she was to dine _tete-a-tete_ with her father.
