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Updated: June 28, 2025
Shippen had been out for a little exercise, and withal had some curiosity to see the mad carnival that had broken out in the staid city. "Ah, it is Madam Wetherill's little girl!" looking sharply at Nevitt. "I thought I had seen the child somewhere," said the young man who had caused the accident. "Can we not take her home at once?" "I am her brother," was Nevitt's stiff reply.
"A suit of Captain Nevitt's is here, but thou couldst hardly squeeze into it. At thirty thou wilt be the counterpart of thy uncle Philemon. Thou wilt go to Valley Forge?" "Yes. After I have struck into the old Perkiomen road no one will look for me. It is getting through the city. And the time is brief. I would not for worlds raise any suspicion for thee." "Patty, exercise thy quick wit.
There were lace frills to her puffed sleeves, and a lace tucker, with a pretty bow on one shoulder. But it seemed as if she looked more beautiful than ever before. Everybody made much of her. It appeared to be an easy road to Captain Nevitt's heart.
"It'll kill her! I'm sure it'll kill her! She'll never get over the thought that her father was was the cause of Montague Nevitt's death. And you'll never care to marry a girl of whom people will say, either justly or unjustly, 'She's a murderers daughter'.... And that will kill her, too. For, Kelmscott, she loved you!" Granville held the dying man's hand still more gently than ever.
As for Cyril, he was too happy in Guy's exculpation from the greater crime, and his frank explanation of the lesser under Nevitt's influence to care very much in his own heart what became of Tilgate. The only one man who objected to this arrangement was Mr. Reginald Clifford, C.M.G., of Craighton.
Possessed by this one idea, with devouring force, but still in a very nebulous and hazy form, Guy began walking towards the Strand and the Embankment, at the hot top of his speed, to get the notes back at Montague Nevitt's chambers.
But Cyril Waring, in his straightforward, simple English manliness, was not sharp enough to perceive that Nevitt watched him close while he broke the envelopes and glanced over his letters; or that Nevitt's keen anxiety grew at once far deeper and more carefully concealed as Cyril turned to one big missive with an official-looking seal and a distinctly important legal aspect.
"Oh, Cyril" she seized his arm with a convulsive grip "for Heaven's sake, go and get it; let me see that letter!" "I have it here," Cyril answered, pulling it out with some shame from Montague Nevitt's pocket-book, which he wouldn't destroy, and dared not leave about for prying eyes to light upon. "I've carried it day and night, ever since, about with me."
A close observer like Elma Clifford might perhaps have noted in Montague Nevitt's eye certain well-restrained symptoms of suppressed curiosity.
"Montague Nevitt" was written in plain letters on the leather flap; within lay half-a-dozen engraved visiting-cards, a Foreign Office passport in Nevitt's name, and thirty Bank of England notes for one hundred pounds apiece. This was, indeed, a mystery! "Where did it come from?" the judge asked, drawing a painfully deep breath, and handing it across to the jury.
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