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Updated: May 4, 2025
But I did not add that I should no more have known Colonel Clay himself in his character of Paul Finglemore, or of Césarine's young man, as that remark lay clearly outside my secretarial functions.
Paul Finglemore drew back even while we held his shoulders. "No, not you, sir," he said to the man, haughtily. "Don't dare to lay your hands upon me! Send for a constable if you wish, Sir Charles Vandrift; but I decline to be taken into custody by a valet!" "Go for a policeman," Dr. Beddersley said to Simpson, standing forward. The prisoner eyed him up and down. "Oh, Dr.
Colonel Clay himself or, rather, Paul Finglemore is an abandoned rogue, whom I do not desire to screen in any degree. But poor little Madame Picardet she may be his lawful wife, and she may have acted implicitly under his orders. Besides, I don't know whether I could swear to her identity.
"Halloa, Finglemore," Charles said, "that's that scamp of a brother of yours! I thought you had shipped him off years and years ago to China?" "So I did, Sir Charles," Finglemore answered, rubbing his hands somewhat nervously. "But he never went there. Being an idle young dog, with a taste for amusement, he got for the time no further than Paris.
But Paul Finglemore himself looked steadily towards the further end of the hall, where two pale-faced women sat together, with handkerchiefs in their hands, and eyes red with weeping.
Charles asked once more of the nearest inspector, desiring to see in what way he would describe her. And once more the answer came, "That's the prisoner's wife, sir." Charles started back, surprised. "But I was told a lady outside was Mrs. Paul Finglemore," he broke in, much puzzled. "Very likely," the inspector replied, unmoved. "We have plenty that way.
The judge gazed at him severely. "Paul Finglemore," he said, passing sentence in his sardonic way, "you have chosen to dedicate to the service of fraud abilities and attainments which, if turned from the outset into a legitimate channel, would no doubt have sufficed to secure you without excessive effort a subsistence one degree above starvation possibly even, with good luck, a sordid and squalid competence.
Finglemore put into the box the ingenuous original of the little curate the Reverend Septimus Porkington, as it turned out, a friend of his family; and he showed that it was the Reverend Septimus himself who had sat to a photographer in Baker Street for the portrait which Charles too hastily identified as that of Colonel Clay in his personification of Mr. Richard Brabazon.
At that moment Simpson returned with a convenient policeman, whom he had happened to find loitering about near the area steps, and whom I half suspected from his furtive smile of being a particular acquaintance of the household. Charles gave the man in charge formally. Paul Finglemore insisted that he should specify the nature of the particular accusation.
I thought, for my own part, he was a trifle too cocksure. A certain amount of hesitation would have been better policy. As to the various swindles, he detailed them in full, his evidence to be supplemented by that of bank officials and other subordinates. In short, he left Finglemore not a leg to stand upon.
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