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Updated: June 22, 2025
Trevelyan would have given all that he had to save his wife; would, even now, have cut his tongue out before he would have expressed to anyone, save to Bozzle, a suspicion that she could in truth have been guilty; was continually telling himself that further life would be impossible to him, if he, and she, and that child of theirs, should be thus disgraced; and yet he expected it, believed it, and, after a fashion, he almost hoped it.
He was to wait at Turin till tidings should come from Bozzle, and after that he would go on to Venice; but he would not move from Turin till he should have received his first communication from England. When he had been three days at Turin they came to him, and, among other letters in Bozzle's packet, there was a letter addressed in his wife's handwriting.
"But you see that it was necessary," said Trevelyan. "I can't say that it was necessary. To speak out, I can't understand that a wife should be worth watching who requires watching." "Is a man to do nothing then? And even now it is not my wife whom I doubt." "As for Colonel Osborne, if he chooses to go to Lessboro', why shouldn't he? Nothing that you can do, or that Bozzle can do, can prevent him.
Outhouse, and would have been glad to have done that gentleman a kindness had an opportunity come in his way. "What does he want, Uncle Oliphant?" said Mrs. Trevelyan at the foot of the stairs, guarding the way up to the nursery. At this moment the front door had just been closed behind the back of Mr. Bozzle. "You had better ask no questions," said Mr. Outhouse. "But is it about Louis?"
"Stony Walk, Union Street, Borough," he said to himself, wondering; then it occurred to him that Bozzle, and Bozzle only among Trevelyan's friends, could live at Stony Walk in the Borough. Thus armed, he set out for St. Diddulph's; and, as one of the effects of his visit to the East, Sir Marmaduke's note was forwarded to Louis Trevelyan at Turin.
It is not exaggeration to say that every letter made him for the time a very wretched man. This ex-policeman wrote of the wife of his bosom, of her who had been the wife of his bosom, and who was the mother of his child, who was at this very time the only woman whom he loved, with an entire absence of delicacy. Bozzle would have thought reticence on his part to be dishonest.
Trevelyan only smiled at this, or pretended to smile. He would not discuss the question; but believed implicitly what Bozzle had told him in spite of all Stanbury's arguments. "I can say nothing further," said Stanbury. "No, my dear fellow.
"If you would have gone to Mr. Skint, sir ," suggested Bozzle. "There ain't no smarter gent in all the profession, sir, than Mr. Skint." Mr. Trevelyan made no reply to this, but walked on in silence, with his minister at his elbow.
"And where is he?" "We do not know where he lives. We can reach him only through a certain man " "Ah, I know the man," said Stanbury; "one who was a policeman once. His name is Bozzle." "That is the man," said Sir Marmaduke. "I have seen him." "And of course he will tell us nothing but what he is told to tell us," continued Lady Rowley.
Dorothy, as she went up to bed, was more than ever satisfied with herself, in that she had not yielded in reference to Mr. Gibson. Trevelyan passed on moodily and alone from Turin to Venice, always expecting letters from Bozzle, and receiving from time to time the dispatches which that functionary forwarded to him, as must be acknowledged, with great punctuality. For Mr.
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