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Updated: June 1, 2025
The abruptness of Chilcote's arrival at Clifford's Inn in the afternoon had left no time for superfluous questions. He skimmed the writing with a touch of interested haste, then all at once he paused and smiled. "Big enough for a tombstone!" he said below his breath as his eyes rested on a large blue cross. Then he smiled again and held the book to the light. "Dine 33 Cadogan Gardens, 8 o'c.
Mauleverer listened with a countenance of polite incredulity; he had heard but little of the conversation that had taken place between the pair; but on questioning the squire upon sundry particulars of Clifford's birth, parentage, and property, he found him exactly as ignorant as before.
It seems to be a good, plain, respectable inn; and the waiter gave us each a plate of boiled beef, and, for dessert, a damson tart, which made up a comfortable dinner. After dinner, we zigzagged homeward through Clifford's link passage, Holborn, Drury Lane, the Strand, Charing Cross, Pall Mall, and Regent Street; but I remember only an ancient brick gateway as particularly remarkable.
He tells me that there is not so great confidence between any two men of power in the nation at this day, that he knows of, as between my Lord Arlington and Sir Thomas Clifford; and that it arises by accident only, there being no relation nor acquaintance between them, but only Sir Thomas Clifford's coming to him and applying himself to him for favours, when he came first up to town to be a Parliament-man.
His second son, Lord Rutland, fell crying for mercy on his knees before Clifford. But Clifford's father had been the first to fall in the battle of St. Albans which opened the struggle. "As your father killed mine," cried the savage baron, while he plunged his dagger in the young noble's breast, "I will kill you!" The brutal deed was soon to be avenged.
Not very well knowing how to get rid of this applicant, and feeling the more embarrassed because his manner and appearance claimed a delicacy in which the worthy Mr Boffin feared he himself might be deficient, that gentleman glanced into the mouldy little plantation or cat-preserve, of Clifford's Inn, as it was that day, in search of a suggestion.
Then laying down her work she said in a guarded tone, glancing at Lady Clifford's door: "Of course there's one thing that would alter all that. Suppose what Arthur Holliday told Thérèse wasn't true." "You mean he may have invented that story of the breakdown? Yes, it's quite possible. Only in that case..." "Don't misunderstand me, Roger," interrupted the old lady quickly.
"I will try, my lady; but we must speak of it to Lord Henry, that he may understand his life depends on its not being known that he is Lord Clifford's son." "My Henry is wise beyond his years," replied the lady, "and I fear me not that he will submit to this necessity without a murmur."
Harriet was clutching her hand so tightly that it ached for hours afterward, but at the time neither girl knew it. Six, seven, eight, nine! And still Clifford's name had not been called. Harriet bent forward as the boy drew the next slip: "Captain Williams," he read clearly.
But his companions, affrighted by his gesture, which was that of a man hurried away in spite of himself, seized Clifford's garment and held him back. Hepzibah shrieked. Phoebe, to whom all extravagance was a horror, burst into sobs and tears. "Clifford, Clifford! are you crazy?" cried his sister. "I hardly know, Hepzibah," said Clifford, drawing a long breath.
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