Augustus Temple Alias James Ryder

by Thomas Waters

A messenger from Scotland-yard brought me the following note, before I was up, from the Chief Commissioner:—-“ important—Clarke must go at once to 15, Newman Street, Oxford Street, and ask for Mrs. Norton—a person yesterday discharged, as being convalescent, from Middlesex Hospital. The officer will confer with Mrs. Norton, take full notes of her statement, and immediately communicate with Superintendent Fisher. Further instructions for Clarke’s guidance will then be given.—R. M.”

I quickly rose, breakfasted, and was at 15, Newman Street in less than half-an-hour after receiving the Commissioner’s order. I had previously heard that a nobleman and Cabinet Minister took an interest in Mrs. Norton—the reason why being, that owing to an accident, for which the coachman was to blame, that lady had been knocked down by the noble lord’s carriage, whilst crossing Oxford Street. His lordship having several times visited at the hospital, had heard and given credence, qualified credence probably, to the singular story which, not many days before the accident, she had partially confided to Superintendent Fisher, and which that functionary had civilly pooh-poohed. The superintendent mentioned the circumstance to me; and I, judging from his version of what the applicant had stated, thought he had done right in refusing to interfere in the business as a police officer, and advising her to consult a respectable solicitor. But it was a horse of quite another colour now that the Commissioner, put in motion by a Cabinet Minister, instructed us that the affair was “important”—urgent.

Mrs. Norton was seated, propped up with pillows, in an easy chair, and if convalescent, was certainly very weak. Her age would be considerably over forty; and though her face was pale, care-worn, the crows’ feet stamped by time and suffering deeply graven, it was evident that she had been very handsome; that her still brilliant eyes must, in youth, have blazed with the fire of many triumphs.

I handed her the Commissioner’s memorandum, by way of introduction. She glanced at it, anxiously scrutinized my look and bearing, then said:—”You would seem to be the man I want. Courage, caution, sagacity, are written in your face. (Soft-sawder, of course; it is sometimes worth a lady’s while to flatter even a police officer.) Courage, caution, sagacity, are written in your face, if I do not misinterpret the index. Those qualities, combined with zeal, will all be needed to bring this perplexed, perplexing business to a successful issue. Please to hand me the writing-case on the side-board yonder. Written memoranda are scarcely required to aid such a memory as mine; but I am told to be particular as to dates. Are you ready to take the full notes you are required to submit to Superintendent Fisher? Not a man that, by-the-bye, to set the Thames on fire!”

“I am quite ready, madam.”

“Very well; and I will be all brief as possible. It is, however, I suppose, necessary to be unreserved?”

“Yes, madam. I cannot hope to work successfully in the dark.”

The narrative was a prolix one; the tediousness of which it is not necessary to inflict upon my readers. Its kernel will be easily eliminated. First, to run rapidly over Mrs Norton’s maiden history:—Her father’s name was Charteris; and she was a native of Arundel, Surrey. She had a brother who, when a mere boy, ran off to sea, and his relatives had not since heard directly from or of him. The father would seem to have been a harsh man—his life one of the unnumbered wrecks that strew the pathway of the world. Starting with some advantages, he had taken the wrong turning, and early found himself stranded in shallows, harassed by ignoble miseries. From these he was rescued by the marriage of his daughter with Robert Norton, Esquire, of Trafalgar House, Three Bridges, a place not many miles distant, and on the road from Brighton to London. Mr. Norton, one of the projectors of the Brighton Chain Pier, a man of a speculative turn of mind, was wealthy, and though more than forty years older than his bride, ventured upon matrimony after he had passed his sixtieth year in unshackled bachelorhood. Mr. Charteris took up his abode permanently with his son-in-law, to whom he was junior by a score of years. One child was the issue of this marriage, Emily Chantrey Norton, the second baptismal name having, as I understood, been bestowed in honour of her godfather, Chantrey the sculptor, an intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Norton. Seventeen years passed away. The daughter, gifted with dazzling beauty, her personal perfections set off, enhanced by educational culture, and reputedly a rich heiress, had, I need hardly say, no lack of suitors, some of them very eligible ones; one notably so, a gentleman afterwards created a baronet, and, when I was ordered to see and confer with Mrs. Norton, M.P. for a populous borough. These were all rejected, by advice, as it seemed, of Mrs. Norton. Mothers have always been chartered dreamers, and I was, therefore, not surprised to hear that Mrs. Norton was desirous and expectant of a coronet for her beautiful child, and would not be content with a less prize than that. This was the bait with which the father of mischief angled for and caught them.

One Augustus Temple, Esquire, gentleman of fashionable exterior and correspondent manners, came to reside for a time near Three Bridges. He rented a shooting-box in the neighbourhood, and lived for several weeks in almost strict retirement. He had two servants only—James Summers, a groom, and, in his way, fast sporting man; and an elderly woman of the name of Berridge. She was the groom’s aunt, much attached to him, and wholly under his control.

Mrs. Norton had since reason to believe that Mr. Temple, as he called himself had seen Emily Chantrey Norton at Brighton, and been greatly struck with her rare beauty. That circumstance was not allowed to transpire. The meeting and resulting acquaintanceship of the young stranger with Miss Norton were thought to have been brought about by the accident of his having come to reside for the time in that part of the country. However that might be, Mr. Temple soon became the young lady’s constant companion in her walks. Mrs. Norton watched the rapid progress of the intimacy with natural inquietude, and at last refused to permit her daughter to leave the house unless accompanied by herself: a prudent step, quickened by a hint she received from Caroline Dent—Miss Emily’s personal attendant—that Mr. Temple had proposed private marriage to her susceptible young mistress.

This, however, was denied by Miss Norton; and the waiting-maid herself, when confronted with the young lady, admitted that she had no better authority for the assertion than her own suspicion. This was false, the truth being that the mistress and maid had quarreled. Caroline Dent, following her young lady’s example, had been making too frequent rendezvous, in her mistress’s opinion, with the good-looking groom, and been forbidden to go out for that purpose. In the first flash of resentment she had dropped the hint spoken of to Mrs. Norton, but the breach between her and Miss Emily being quickly healed, she had recanted the partial betrayal.

Mrs. Norton’s awakened suspicions could not, however, be so easily allayed. The daughter was to be kept in rigorous confinement till such time as Mr. Temple should make an open revelation, not of his love, his passion—there could be no doubt about that—but of his social position, which if found to be in the mother’s opinion sufficiently exalted, the affair would be taken into serious consideration.

Mr. Norton, I should state, was nothing in the business. He was fast approaching fourscore, was afflicted with perennial gout, and, which placed him in still humbler subjection to his imperious wife, had greatly diminished his wealth—how greatly Mrs. Norton was afraid to distinctly ascertain—by unfortunate ventures in railway shares and other speculative investments. Love for a man old enough to be her grandfather she could never have felt, but riches—worldly astuteness—always command respect. Those titles to esteem being no longer his, the husband in her eyes was a silly fool as well as a uxorious dotard. It was not necessary that Mrs. Norton should tell me so in words. I also readily understood that the lowering aspect of the family’s pecuniary prospects rendered her the easier dupe of Mr. Temple’s audacious, and yet really clumsy scheme for securing Miss Emily Norton’s person and supposed large fortune. The eager adventurer was perfectly aware that if the ambitious mother knew his circumstances and antecedents, and a regular, open marriage could not be solemnized without her becoming acquainted with them, the affair would be over. Yes, and he was cognizant of her dominant weakness. He had, indeed, already prepared the ground for the fruition of his hopes.

Summers had more than once hinted confidentially to Caroline Dent that his master was not what he seemed, but a far greater person. Those hesitating confidences were always followed by expressions of regret for his own unguardedness of speech. Should Mr. Temple know that he had hinted such a thing, he should be discharged at once without a character. Caroline Dent promised not to repeat a syllable of what he had said, or should say, that he might wish to keep dark; and so, assured of impunity, Summers in a moment of effusive candour unveiled to his sweetheart the mystery which he was bound in duty to conceal. Mr. Temple was the son, the eldest son of an earl—the Earl of Hattowby; he himself Lord Sandon, whose name his dear Caroline had, no doubt, often seen in the newspapers. It was a great North of England family. His father (the earl) was naturally desirous that he should marry amongst the highest order of nobility; but the young lord was of a remarkably romantic turn of mind, and had resolved not only to wed for love, but never to chance the risk of being cheated into marriage with a woman who, in accepting him for a husband, might be influenced solely or chiefly by the ambition of sharing his title and wealth. All this and similar stuff, administered by Mrs. Berridge, the groom’s aunt, a crafty agent in the plot, was eagerly swallowed by the silly waiting maid, who was, moreover, made to believe that immediately after Lord Sandon’s marriage with Miss Norton, . should it ever take place, he (Summers) would be set up handsomely in business in the public line by his lordship; when he would, of course, make Caroline Dent his wife without delay.

Every word of these confidential revelations would, it was well known by the plotters, be communicated by the maid to her mistress; by Miss Norton to her mother, who listened thereto with keen interest, with fearful hope. Mrs. Norton was perplexed in the extreme. The bare possibility of her daughter one day becoming Countess of Harrowby almost turned her brain, but she still retained sufficient sense to require some better evidence that Mr. Temple was Lord Sandon than the mere assertion of his groom. How that indispensable proof could be obtained without making shipwreck of so great a hope was the question of questions as eagerly debated by Caroline Dent as by Mrs. Norton herself—the beautiful Emily being the while kept more rigidly, than ever au secret, of course, to increase the romantic lover’s ardor. Seemingly irrefragable evidence of the truth of the groom’s story was very soon obtained by a mode which Mrs. Norton did not attempt to justify, though she excused it, under the plea of a natural anxiety to secure so brilliant a prize in the matrimonial lottery for her beloved child. She might not, however, have acted with so much precipitation, had it not been certain that the fact of her husband’s hopeless insolvency would be known to every soul in Three Bridges before many days had passed. She could not calculate what effect such a circumstance might have upon the mind of a proud, sensitive nobleman.

“Caroline Dent,” said Mrs. Norton, “came into the room where I was sitting, early in the day, much flushed and excited, with a small bag in her hand. Her errand was briefly told. She had been to see Mrs. Berridge, who was confined to her bed with a violent cold. Mr. Temple and the groom were gone to Brighton, and would not return till late in the evening. Talking with Berridge––as she frequently did—of the interrupted wooing of Miss Emily by Mr. Temple, the housekeeper—(who was as desirous as her nephew that the marriage should come off as soon as possible, there always being so many slips betwixt the cup and the lip, and hearing from Dent that I would insist upon clear proof that the proposed bridegroom was in truth Lord Sandon)—suggested an easy method of satisfying my very natural scruples. In an adjoining room was Mr. Temple’s writing desk, containing his correspondence. She (Berridge) knew where he always placed his keys when he left the place. Some of the letters were, no doubt, written by friends in his confidence; and would, almost to a certainty, establish who Mr. Temple really was beyond question. ‘After your mistress has read the letters, they can be replaced in the desk; her doubts. and fears will have been removed,’ added Berridge; ‘and if not, no harm will have been done.’ ‘I thought so, too,’ continued Dent; ‘and here are the letters I found—five in number.’’’

“A very perilous as well as audacious trick to play,” I remarked, “had it not been so evidently a trap set by the pretended Temple and his accomplices.”

I have already remarked that I had heard the substance of Mrs. Norton’s narrative from Superintendent Fisher.

“A very perilous thing to do,’’’ said Mrs. Norton. “I felt that; and for a brief while hesitated to read the letters. Maternal solicitude conquered,” continued the lady. “ There could not, I also reasoned, be any harm done, whatever might be the result, as affording or not affording light upon our perplexing position. The perusal of the letters decided me. No shadow of doubt remained upon my mind that Mr. Temple was Lord Sandon. Only one contained no allusion whatever to that circumstance. The post-mark on that was ‘Brighton.’ It was a business letter, commencing with ‘Sir.’ The others all posted in London, and evidently from intimate friends, began with ‘My dear Sandon:’ but only one of the writers appeared to be exactly aware of why his lordship was passing under the name of Temple. That letter was conclusive with me. I took a copy. Here it is. You can read it.”

“Middle Temple, London,

September 28th.

“my dear sandon,

“I shall not fail to call at Storr and Mortimer’s tomorrow, respecting the jewellery; and will let you know when Mr. Temple is likely to receive it. Costly presents of the kind have, I know, great influence with a certain order of young ladies. I must, however, repeat my earnest hope that Mrs. N.— who seems to be a judicious, sensible woman—will prove inexorable. Depend upon it, your fancy, whim, anything you please, is a very absurd one. I do not, of course, dispute your taste. The daughter is, I doubt not, beautiful as an angel—amiable in the highest degree of amiability,—refined, graceful, and so on. Nevertheless, run away from her—flee temptation without delay. Such utterly unequal marriages never lead to permanent happiness. The young lady herself might, no doubt, be a very presentable Lady Sandon, and develop, in the fulness of time, into a dignified Countess of Harrowby; but the plebeian connexion—the family, my dear fellow— there’s the rub! You don’t mention how many brothers and sisters the divine girl has: a dozen at least, no doubt. A faux pas in youth may be excused—society soon condones it. But mésalliance—the marriage of the heir to an English earldom with a boat builder’s (her father-in-law is a boat or barge builder, I forget which) daughter would be an outrage upon the proprieties. ‘The Devil take the proprieties! Eh? You do not care a straw for the opinion of society. Why should you?’ Of course, you do not now, but you will care, when it is too late to do so. Repentance may be late, but it will be sure and bitter. However, if Willful will to water, Willful must drench or drown. As regards your legal query, the case is quite clear. You are, at present, a lord by courtesy only—James Ryder, commonly called Lord Sandon; and you will have to be married, should that catastrophe really await you, in the name of ‘Augustus Temple’—(since that nom de preux Chevalier is to be kept up to the last)—otherwise ‘James Ryder.’ The fatal knot will then be tied fast enough. By-the-bye, what excuse shall you make to the earl,— for drawing the thumping cheque you will require to pay Storr and Mortimer,—but they can wait,—and to defray the enormous cost of the wedding tour you. Contemplate? This, too, not very long after your heavy losses at Goodwood! Again, I say, pause! reflect! whilst there is yet time for profitable reflection! Your attached and very anxious friend,

“sidney beauchamp.”

“A crafty letter, madam; composed, no doubt, by Augustus Temple, and posted like the others in London by friends of his. I am not surprised that you were deceived by it, though the last paragraph but one would have opened my eyes.”

“You mean that relative to the heavy cheque which it would be necessary to draw on the Earl, Lord Sandon’s father?”

“Clearly so; and, if I understand aright, Augustus Temple perfectly well knew at the time that the pretty sum of five thousand pounds, bequeathed to Miss Norton some months previously, was lying in the Bank of England, and nothing was required but your written consent to enable her to withdraw the same.”

“How could I suppose the villain knew it? The money, in fact, was in the house, in my own immediate possession. I had withdrawn it in consequence of a ridiculous, but quite real, apprehension; that it might possibly be impounded by my husband’s creditors.”

“Your daughter and her confidante, Caroline Dent, knew the five thousand pounds were actually in the house. It followed, therefore, that the groom, the housekeeper, and scoundrel-in-chief, would be cognizant of that important fact.”

“True; but the thought did not cross my mind at the time. I was, it is folly to deny, absorbed—carried off my feet—by being brought within practical reach, as it were, of the dazzling social position offered to my dear Emily. I knew, too, that she was sincerely attached to Temple; that, left to herself, she would have accepted the hand of the fellow had he not possessed a shilling. A more specious, plausible person I never spoke with. We now come,” continued Mrs. Norton, with acrid petulance, “to the gist of the business in relation to your detective services. A letter from Temple to my daughter, taken charge of by Dent, Emily was permitted to receive, and before a week had passed they were married, with my pretendedly reluctant consent. It is useless to attempt putting a gloss on the matter. They were married at Three Bridges parish church. Everybody said Miss Norton had flung hersef away upon an adventurer, whilst I secretly exulted that she had clutched a coronet. Immediately After the ceremony they left for London, and thence proceeded to Paris.”

“The bridegroom taking with him the five thousand pounds; which sum prevented the necessity of an immediate application to his father, the Earl of Harrowby?”

“No; four thousand only. I retained one thousand, with my daughter’s consent for my own use. To that her husband could make no objection.”

“Certainly not; a very unreasonable rascal if he had. Pray go on, madam,”

“About five weeks after the marriage my husband was declared bankrupt; and but for the thousand pounds we should have been without available means. I wrote to my daughter, breaking the matter to her as gently as possible—the letter being, I need hardly say, also intended to be laid before Lord Sandon. The reply was a thunderbolt; which not only shattered into dust my fine castles in the clouds, but for a number of hours literally deprived me of reason. I was wild—furious—could have torn myself to pieces for having permitted the scoundrel to so egregiously dupe, befool me; and that agony of rage was, let me confess, barbed by the fiery stings of shame—of self-reproach.

“Directly Emily’s husband had run his eye over my letter, he broke into furious passion, swore he had been regularly swindled into marrying a pauper, when he thought to wed a wealthy heiress; flung at Emily that he was no more Lord Sandon than he was the Duke of Wellington; and, finally, left his bewildered, swooning wife under the care of Dent, and with about one hundred pounds out of the four thousand in her possession. She has not seen nor heard of him since. Caroline Dent—I talk nonsense, Mrs. Summers (she was married to the groom)—remained with her unfortunate mistress; Summers went off with his master. The shock so completely prostrated my betrayed, unhappy child, that she was physically unable to return to England, passionately as she longed, in that cruel abandonment, to see and embrace her mother. I started for Paris the moment I was able to do so, brought Emily to England, and we finally—my husband having died—took up our abode in the immediate neighbourhood of Arundel, Surrey; our chief means of support being three hundred pounds per annum settled for life, by my husband, upon Mr. Charteris, my father, at the time of my marriage, which income will, of course, die with him. He enjoys, however, excellent health for his age.”

“You lost no time, Fisher told me, in ascertaining that the real Lord Sandon knew nothing about the fellow who had so audaciously duped you.”

“I did; and that no such person existed as Sidney Beauchamp, of the Middle Temple. Why the impostor should have pitched upon the Harrowby family, in particular, I cannot imagine.”

“Well, I have a sort of hazy notion of what may have been his reason for doing that. Your daughter had the reputation of being a rich heiress. He wished to contract with her a really valid marriage. Looking through the peerage, he saw that the Harrowby family name was Ryder; and Ryder, be assured, madam, is the fellow’s real name. At least, I suspect so; giving the opinion for what it may be worth.”

“Yes; I, of course, consulted the peerage, and found that the family name was really Ryder. That helped to confirm the delusion I was under.”

“Of course it would; Ryder alias Temple knew that very well. Upon my word, a very clever conspiracy—atrocious as clever. But cleverest players with such edge tools generally end by cutting their own throats. Your daughter,” I went on to say, “has a son; or, to speak with precision, had a son by this marriage?”

“Yes, Augustus— a fine, healthy boy—was born about eight months after Emily’s desertion by her husband. That fact I, acting under legal advice, took care should be at any time capable of being judicially verified.”

“You did wisely, madam. And now as to the abduction of the child when, as I think the superintendent informed me, it was three years old, or thereabout?

“Rather more than three years old; and it is now about six since the boy was stolen away.”

“Please to give me very exact particulars, madam. The partial relation of the circumstances by Fisher impresses me with a notion that it is in that direction we must break cover if at all.”

“Mrs. Summers, as I have said, remained with her deserted mistress in Paris. She is of a kindly disposition; and finally decided upon casting in her lot with us at Arundel, in preference to seeking more lucrative service. She became much attached to the child Augustus; he with her. Of Summers she had not heard since his flight from Paris with Temple, or Ryder; but the poor woman always cherished the idea that the fellow would one day return to claim her for his wife.

“One summer evening,” continued Mrs. Norton, “soon after we had taken tea, I, with my father took a stroll through the Arundel Castle woods. Suddenly a man crossed the opening to a glade not very far ahead of us. I had but a momentary glance at his face, but that caused my heart to beat so tumultuously that I was near fainting. As certainly as that I live and breathe, it was James Summers. I made my father sit, on the sward whilst I hastened at my best speed after the groom; I could not overtake or see him. I believe he recognised me, and had therefore hurried off. I returned home, and asked, immediately I entered the door, for Caroline Summers. She was gone out with the child, Augustus had been absent a full hour. A vague fear seized me. Search was immediately made for the woman and boy; it was fruitless. Neither has since been heard of.”

“Did the woman leave anything of value behind?”

“Her clothes only; worth, perhaps, five or six pounds.”

“You missed nothing of value—jewelry, for example?

“Not an article: and my daughter’s jewelry is of considerable value. There was a diamond ring          on her toilet-table which her father gave two hundred pounds for. Summer’s knew its value, and might easily have appropriated it.”

“As I supposed: it was a question only of stealing the child. And now, madam, if you please, as to your having seen Augustus Temple, otherwise James Ryder, in Saint James’s Street, a short time ago. But first, to finish about the little boy; are there any natural marks about him?"

“Yes. A strawberry strongly marked on the nape of the neck, and one mole just beneath it.”

“That may prove of gravest consequence. Now then, madam, as the recontre in St. James’s Street.”

“Emily and I were in London, upon business which I need not enter upon. When walking down St. James’s Street our eyes fell together upon two gentlemen seated in an open barouche—a dark green barouche—which was driving rapidly toward Piccadilly. One of those gentlemen, dressed in plain clothes, was my daughter’s husband. We are both certain of it. Emily fell fainting upon the pavement, and before I could raise her, and look round, the barouche had disappeared.”

“Was the gentleman seated with your daughter’s husband in plain clothes?”

“No; he wore a naval uniform, and was in full dress. The coat had two epaulettes, and there were honorary insignia of some kind fastened on his breast. The barouche and general turn-out indicated that the owner was a man of wealth and distinction”

“The colour of the liveries. Did you mark that?”

“I did not. There was no time.”

“And you have not seen your daughter’s husband since?”

“I am nor sure that I have, though I have remained in London expressly in the hope of doing so. I thought I saw him in Oxford Street; and it was when running across the street, to make sure, that I met with the accident from which I am still suffering.”

“Have you anything else to add?”

“No, except to say that my daughter has sent me from Arundel a wonderfully striking likeness of her husband. It was painted in Paris, and left behind when he hurried from that city. She fancies it may prove of service in the hands of the detective police.”

“I will tell you when I see it. Of very little use, if any, madam. There is nothing peculiar or decided in the certainly handsome face. Brown hair, light moustaches, full whiskers, straight nose, gray eyes. Such a description would apply to thousands of men. It is a personal appearance, too, that could be so easily changed if Mr. Ryder or Temple should have reason to suspect that the police were employed to trace him out. Simply dyeing the brown hair and whiskers black would render him unrecognisable except by those who knew him intimately. As, however, the gentleman with your daughter’s husband was a naval officer, and you say the likeness is a very striking one, I will show it to the attendants of the military and naval clubs first, next to the others, and ask if they know such a person either as a member or a visitor at the clubs. That failing it may be as well, the portrait being in my judgment a very finely painted one, we might ask Messrs. Colnaghi, for example, to permit it to be hung conspicuously in the shop, where the likeness may be recognised. One reflection which may not have occurred to you makes me think, that in spite of Mr. Ryder or Temple having been seen in a brilliant barouche side by side with a naval officer of high rank, he cannot have come into a large fortune, as you hinted to Fisher would in your opinion prove to be the case. Were it so, he would surely have sense, if not spirit or honesty, enough to return the five thousand pounds he obtained of you, your consent in writing being essential to its attainment, by a false pretence. He did not merely tell a naked lie; it was a lie with corroborative circumstances—the forged letters and so on. He must be aware that should Summers the groom, or Mrs. Summers, or Mrs. Berridge turn round upon him, he would be in a very perilous position. More than that, he, the groom, and Mrs. Berridge might be indicted, should supporting testimony turn up, for a felonious conspiracy. He never—supposing him to have, as you suppose, ample means at his disposal—would remain obnoxious to such a charge, even though it might for technical reasons fall through. The money would have been returned to you.”

“Why, then, was Mrs. Summers bribed—cajoled, at all events—by some powerful motive to steal the boy? Yon yourself believe that Ryder or Temple, through his agent, the groom, prevailed upon the woman to commit that crime.”

“That is true. Well, madam, I shall give this matter my best consideration, and again communicate with you directly any good purpose is likely to be answered by so doing.” 

My “full notes” elicited an order, to go roundly into the affair. My next step, in obedience to the order, was to visit the club houses taking the portrait with me. ‘Twas trouble thrown away. No one had the slightest recollection of such a gentleman, and as a last resort I, through a third highly respectable party, obtained leave to hang the portrait conspicuously in Messrs. Colnaghi’s shop. The pretence was that the much-distressed relatives of the original doubtfully hoped—other modes of inquiry having failed—to discover his whereabouts by that bizarre experiment.

This shallow trap limed, I was considering what farther might be done, when a note reached me through the post from Mrs. Norton, who had retuned to Arundel, requesting  to see me there immediately, a very important communication having been forwarded to her by Mr. James Ryder, through Messrs. Barstowe, the solicitors, of Furnival’s Inn. I obeyed the summons without delay, and was both surprised and amused by Messrs. Barstowe’s letter. Those gentlemen had received two thousand pounds, the moiety of a sum of four thousand which James Ryder, Esquire, sometimes calling himself Augustus Temple, who at one  time honestly believed that he had contracted a legal marriage with Emily Chantrey Norton, had received, under a misapprehension, from that lady’s mother. The two thousand pounds would be handed over to Mrs. Norton at Messrs. Barstowe’s office on any day she might please to name, a precedent condition being that she signed a certain document, a copy of which would be sent for inspection and approval to any solicitor that lady would name. Messrs. Barstowe were instructed to add that Mr. James Ryder, who had lately visited England for a short time, had left for Spain, in which country he had settled for life, having been informed that Mrs. Norton, for whom he felt unfeigned respect, had been so ill-advised as to set detective officers on his track. To save her further trouble and expense, he frankly admitted that it was by his order the boy Augustus, his son, had been brought away from Arundel, and that he was now residing, and would continue to reside, with his father. Mr. James Ryder would, moreover, covenant to allow Emily Chantrey Norton one hundred and fifty pounds per annum for life, and as soon as possible—certainly within three years—to reimburse the other half of the four thousand pounds received of Mrs. Norton by mistake; but this only upon condition of a solemn obligation being subscribed that all further scandal, talk, allusion to the alleged marriage, should cease at once and forever. That stipulation fairly carried out, there would be no objection to Ellen [Emily] Chantrey Norton seeing her son under proper regulations.

“Well,” said the anxious eyes of Mrs. Norton, eagerly perusing mine, as I finished and unfolded the letter, “what think you?”

“The man is a shallow fool, as well as a consummate villain!” said I. “He could scarcely have composed the letter signed ‘Sidney Beauchamp;’ or, if so, he has lost all skill in adroit lying. James Ryder is in England, and frightened out of what poor wit he ever possessed.”

“Frightened!” said a soft, silver voice close beside me—”frightened! What should frighten Mr. Ryder?”

I turned sharply round, and knew that the speaker was Mrs. Ryder, who had just before entered the room. A lovelier face than hers I had never seen.

“Well, madam," said I, blunderingly, “he ought not to be frightened by the near prospect of finding himself compelled to acknowledge that the lady before me is his wife, to all legal intents and purposes, especially as he seems to have come into possession of a competent estate. That he is terribly frightened is, however, manifest upon the face of the lawyer’s letter. Depend upon it, madam,” said I directly addressing Mrs. Norton, “that Mr. James Ryder is shuffling the cards for such another devil’s game as he played at Three Bridges, and for probably a much higher prize—I can only mean the pecuniary portion of the prize, of course—and dreads that a just cause and impediment will baffle him of his prey. This is the only interpretation I can put upon the proposition he has made."

“I agree with you,” said Mrs. Norton; “and I place the affair in your hands, to act as you deem best with entire confidence. What say you, Emily?”

The betrayed and, I could not doubt, still loving young wife acquiesced with a sigh; and I left, to enter upon the campaign with cheerful confidence.

At first I thought of acting in concert with an attorney; but, upon riper reflection, I determined not to do so. I have no trust ill divided counsels. Besides, I knew where to occasionally drop upon a knowing clerk in Messrs. Barstowe’s office. I should find the ends of the knot if there were one to untie.

I saw Mr. Barstowe, senior; there was no reserve or dissimulation in the conversation of that highly respectable gentleman. He was quite as frank as his duty permitted him to be. I was shown the document Mrs. Norton would be required to sign before she could receive the two thousand pounds. Supposing the attorney’s client, Mr. James Ryder, had correctly stated the case, instead of falsifying it, there was nothing Mrs. Norton could have reasonably objected to sign.

“Mr. James Ryder instructed you personally, I presume?” said I.

“You wrongly presume. I have never seen Mr. James Ryder, who, as our letter states, has left for Spain. We are instructed by Sir James Ryder, Baronet—Mr. James Ryder’s cousin. The Baronet is much interested for the cousin; they were, I believe, schoolfellows together. Sir James”—added Mr. Barstowe, who seemed to be in an unusually garrulous mood— “Sir James has only lately, and unexpectedly, succeeded to the title and estate. It was necessary that three or four lives, each as good as his own in the estimation of an actuary, should lapse, and without lawful issue, too, before his turn came. The estate attached to the baronetcy,” added Mr. Barstowe, “is not so very large—not more at the utmost than three thousand a year. But Fortune’s favours, like her frowns, seldom come single. He is about to marry a very wealthy widow. But for that, Sir James would hardly, I think, have bound himself, as he has done, to furnish the four thousand pounds to be returned to Mrs. Norton; and have guaranteed the one hundred and fifty pounds life annuity to Emily Chantrey Norton. There are not many such generous cousins in the world.”

“Very few indeed. I never met with one. Does the baronet at all resemble his cousin, Mr. James Ryder, whose portrait this is?” said I, suddenly.

Mr. Barstowe looked keenly at the portrait for two or three minutes, and then said— “Yes, there is a remarkable likeness—a family likeness—a very striking family likeness between those features and those of Sir James Ryder. Only the baronet’s hair, whiskers, moustache are jet black, and these are a lightish brown.”

“Have you, may I ask, long known Sir James Ryder?’

“Personally, about ten days only. He was introduced to us by a very old, a much respected client. Would Mrs. Norton wish, for any reason—a  woman’s reason, if she has no better one—to see the baronet. You seem to be edging in that direction. I do not suppose Sir James would have the slightest objection; but the interview would, I am pretty sure, be fruitless.”

Mrs. Norton may have her own opinion, an erroneous one possibly, as to that; but I am quite sure she would be glad to see Sir James. She might wish her daughter to stand better in the baronet’s opinion than the version of the marriage given by his cousin may have placed her.”

“Be it so. I will write to Sir James this evening, requesting him to state if he has any objection to see Mrs. Norton, who, I suppose, would be accompanied by yourself—partly as amicus curiae—partly as a detective officer. I am sure there can be no objection. If you will call the day after tomorrow, early, I will show you the baronet’s answer.”

I also wrote, by the same post, to report progress—immense progress, in my estimation—to Mrs. Norton; and requesting her to be in readiness to come to London at the briefest notice. Not that I believed Sir James Ryder would see Mrs. Norton. My conviction was formed unalterably. Sir James was James Ryder alias Augustus Temple,--who was about to espouse a rich widow,— would then sell the estate he had, to his great surprise inherited,—-and, with the proceeds thereof and the widow and her wealth, betake himself in reality to Spain; or other continental refuge from the pains and penalties of British law. Fire would not have burned that conviction out of me.

Judge then of my surprise when, upon keeping my appointment at Furnival’s Inn, Mr. Barstowe informed me that Sir James Ryder would be happy to see Mrs. Norton and myself, at any time suitable to the lady’s convenience, so that it might be within four days, at his temporary residence Hampstead. Any explanation he could give would be cheerfully rendered; but the terms—money terms—proposed could not be varied.

This was really a poser. The giants I was about to slay were of my own creation. That rascally Ryder alias Temple, who robbed his wife of four thousand pounds, and stole the child from Arundel, was solely prompted by conscience and a desire to do right, as far as pecuniary compensation, to the utmost stretch of  his ability, could repair a cruel wrong. Strange, passing strange, if true. I should wait, without finally deciding, till the last scene of the play was played out.

The day and hour for the interview were appointed; but, before accompanying Mrs. Norton to Maida Lodge, I thought it as well to seek out Edward Colville, Mr. Barstowe’s knowing clerk. He was a decent sort of chap, as far as I knew,–– keen as the north wind, but bibulous, which, of course, diminished his chance of reaching the top of his profession.

“If that ain’t Sir James Ryder,” said he, “the cousinly-likeness must be wonderfully strong, as the governor remarked to you, in the Ryder family. Old Barstowe is going with you, is he, eh? I should like to know the upshot,” he added, after thoughtful pause, and returning me the portrait.

“I can make an excuse for leaving the office, and, after leaving Sir James, you and the lady will find me at the ‘Star and Garter,’ not above two hundred yards from Maida Lodge; but, of course, you know the house. I should like to have a hand in this game. It strikes me that I shall, about noon tomorrow, hear of something to my advantage.”

Mr. Barstowe, Mrs. Norton, and myself left Furnival’s Inn, in a cab, at about eleven.

“Sir James,” said the solicitor, “will speak with you two alone. In the first place, at all events, he will confer privately with me: he wishes, no doubt, to ask some legal questions. After your interview is over, I shall see him again, formulize whatever modification of the proposed arrangement may have been agreed to, and then, I hope, the matter will terminate.”

Nothing could, it seemed, be fairer; and I felt a growing conviction that Mrs. Norton and her daughter could not do a more worldly-wise thing than close at once with the baronet, upon the best terms that could be wrung from him.

Arrived at Maida Lodge, we were ushered into a handsomely-furnished drawing-room; and presently Mr. Barstowe was requested to speak with Sir James in the library. The lawyer was not gone more than ten minutes. “Sir James will see you at once. Let me show you the door. I’m afraid,” he added, “that you will not have gained anything, madam, by insisting upon this interview. There is, moreover, pressing, need of dispatch. The baronet is to be married the day after tomorrow, and will leave England for two or three years, perhaps lodger, immediately.”

Mr. Barstowe tapped at the library door, and the baronet replied, “Come in.” “The interview is to be private, as I told. you,” said the lawyer, retiring; “but I shall see you all three presently.”

A tall, slender gentleman was sitting at large centre table covered with papers and books and with his back towards us, reading a newspaper. He rose with some deliberation, turned round, and a half-glance convinced me that Sir James was not our James Ryder. I was much abashed, and flushed hot as fire. Mrs. Norton was equally daunted, as one may say; and I have no doubt that her estimate of my detective capacity fell instantly to zero.

The baronet bowed coldly to Mrs. Norton, and requested her to be seated; of my presence he appeared to be entirely unconscious.

Mrs. Norton was at a loss to begin. Sir James helped her out.

I was desirous, madam, of seeing you without the presence of lawyers. I am quite aware of all the circumstances attending the unhappy acquaintance with your family at Three Bridges; but, though I am very sensible of my impulsive cousin’s faults—vices, if you will—one does not wish them to be blazoned to the world more than is necessary. With respect to other matters, I consent that the life-annuity to Miss Norton—”

“I beg your pardon, Sir James Ryder,” interrupted the mother, with kindling heat; “there is no Miss Norton. My daughter is your cousin’s lawful wife.”

“I have no wish, madam, to say anything that may hurt your feelings. At all events, if he was her husband, James Norton [Ryder] is dead to her for ever. He has settled—will, no question, marry—in Spain, and must take the consequences. I think, madam,” added the baronet, “there is nothing more to say. Mr. Barstowe will take your final decision. The deed has, you are aware, been already executed by me. A supplementary document I will also subscribe, making the annuity two hundred pounds per annum. That, madam, is my last word.”

Mr. Barstowe agreed to have the necessary deeds ready (and the two thousand pounds) on the morrow, at his office; and I, with Mrs. Norton, both very sulky and very sour, took our way to the Star and Garter. Edward Colville was awaiting us. He listened with glittering eyes to our account of the interview, and smiled radiantly when I indignantly asked him how he could have had the folly or stupidity to say there was a strong family likeness between the hook-nose baronet and the features of the portrait I had shown him.

“Hook-nose, eh!-swarthy complexion! A tall, lathy-like fellow, that has been run up in a hurry! I don’t suppose your Sir James nor the other James knows anything about the portrait; or, at all events, have forgotten that such a thing exists. Well!” added the knowing clerk, with one of his most comprehensive winks, “it will be all on the square presently, never fear. I see a little cherub that sees their little game. We must go back to Maida Lodge; not yet, however—not till the shades of evening fall around us; old Barstowe may not be gone else, and my back-play requires his absence. Never fear that the baronet will be gone out. He has not till quite dark lately, and then always in a close carriage, to visit the rich widow in St. John’s Wood—of course, the rich widow whom the honourable baronet is to lead to the hymeneal altar the day after tomorrow! Ho, ho! We have plenty of time to crack a bottle of wine. Of course,” added he, addressing Mrs. Norton, “I look for reward—money reward—in proportion to the service I shall render you and your daughter. That will do, madam. I can tell whose word I can take in preference to thousands of other people’s bonds.”

“I have the entrée of Maida Lodge,” said Colville, “especially when—as now—I carry a roll of law-papers. I knock; directly the door is opened, you follow me smartly in. Sir James Ryder is, I know, in the library; he is waiting there for me.”

“Sir James Ryder,” said Colville, addressing a gentleman standing with his face to the fire, “I have brought the papers from Mr. Barstowe’s office—”

He was interrupted by a loud, hysterical scream from Mrs. Norton, with which mingled a terrible malediction from the suddenly ashen lips of the baronet. Our James Ryder this time, and no mistake, spite of his dyed hair and whiskers. I saw it all at a glance.

“Augustus Temple otherwise James Ryder, my daughter’s husband!” exclaimed Mrs. Norton. “That is he!”

“Which he,” said Colville, “is, I assure you, the real Simon Pure; the genuine Sir James. The other fellow’s name is Turnley. I dare say he is to be found, if you want him, by stepping through the door opposite, into the next room.”

The baronet glared like a tiger at bay; and, with an impulse of insanity, made as if to bolt out of the room and escape. “No, you don’t, Sir James,” said I, seizing him. “None of that nonsense, if you please.”

Ten minutes more or less, of bewilderment, silent consternation, passed, and then we all began to realize the situation.

Colville was the first to speak.

“It is decidedly a case for transaction—compensation. Hubbub, exposure will injure all parties. Suppose we send for Mr. Barstowe.”

The proposition was sullenly agreed to by the baronet; and before ten o’clock everything was settled. Sir James acknowledged Emily Chantrey Norton to be his lawful wife ; and by formal deed, signed pari passu, with a deed of separation, settled upon Lady Ryder an annuity of eight hundred per annum. The four thousand pounds were also to be returned. As to the boy Augustus, the mother might have him, and welcome. He had been stolen, as a private speculation, by Summers himself—as a means of putting the screw on at pleasure, should Mr. James Ryder, lately Sir James Ryder, be not sufficiently liberal with his cash. He passed as the nephew of Mr. and Mrs. Summers, and had been placed as a boarder at the High School, Everton, near Liverpool. Mr. and Mrs. Summers themselves kept a large tavern in the great maritime metropolis of the North of England.

A few days afterwards, Sir James Ryder left the country, and, I suppose, sojourns permanently on the continent.

It was further stipulated, I had almost forgotten to state, and secured by deed of entail, that the boy (son) should at his father’s death succeed to the estate, as of course he would to the baronetage.