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Updated: June 17, 2025
Then our eyes met and we realized the sin that had been committed. There was the original manuscript of "The Diamond Gate." "The Diamond Gate" was the work not of Adrian Boldero, but of Tom Castleton. Adrian had stolen "The Diamond Gate" from a dead man. Not only from a dead man, but from the dead friend who had loved and trusted in him. We stared at each other open-mouthed.
It all happened very, very suddenly." He paused. "Very, very suddenly!" "Yes," said Sophia, weakly. She was conscious of a profound sadness which was not grief, though it resembled grief. And she had also a feeling that she was responsible to Mr. Till Boldero for anything untoward that might have occurred to him by reason of Gerald. "Yes," said Mr. Till Boldero, deliberately and softly.
Boldero was the last to leave the boat, giving her a vigorous push with his foot in the direction of the shore, from which the vessel was but some forty yards away. They descended into the hold, where they remained perfectly quiet until the first light of dawn enabled them to see what they were doing, and then moved some baskets full of vegetables, and concealed themselves behind them.
Her face frightened Constance, who was always expectant of new anxieties and troubles. Constance straightened out the paper with difficulty, and read "Mr. Gerald Scales is dangerously ill here. Boldero, 49, Deansgate, Manchester." All through the inexpressibly tedious and quite unnecessary call of Dr. She had kept her head up, offering a calm front to the world.
"Well, I do not say as how we could hide him here," Boldero said in answer to the look, "but we might hide him somewhere among the sand hills outside the place, and take him food at night." "Yes, we might do that," Geoffrey agreed. "That could be managed easily enough, I should think, for there are clumps of bushes scattered all over the sand hills half a mile back from the sea.
"P.S. A writer, whose real name, it seems, is Boldero, but who has been entertaining the town for the last twelve months, with some very pleasant lucubrations, under the assumed signature of Leigh Hunt , in his Indicator, of the 31st January last, has thought fit to insinuate, that I Elia do not write the little sketches which bear my signature, in this Magazine; but that the true author of them is a Mr.
"Now then," Boldero went on, "one at a time. Keep quiet, you rascals there!" he broke off shouting to the sailors who were rolling and tumbling on the deck forward, "or I will cut all your throats for you. Now then, Geoffrey, do you and the senor cut the rope that fastens that man on the port side to his comrades. March him to the hatchway and make him go down into the hold.
I also had in my pocket a letter from Jaffery which I thought might interest Adrian. The maid who opened the door informed me that her mistress was out. Was Mr. Boldero in? Yes; but he was working. "That doesn't matter," said I. "Tell him I'm here." The maid did not dare disturb him. Her orders were absolute.
Published under his own name it would doubtless have received recognition; probably it would have made money; but it could not have met with the enthusiastic reception it enjoyed when published under the tragic and romantic name of Adrian Boldero. Of course Jaffery beamed with delight. His forlorn hope had succeeded beyond his dreams. He had fulfilled the immediate needs of the woman he loved.
As to Boldero, the change from the prison with the companions he hated, its degrading work, and coarse and scanty food, made a new man of him. He had been but two-and-twenty when captured by the Spaniards, and was now in the prime of life and strength.
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