CHAPTER XCVI.

SIR CHRISTOPHER BLUNT A HERO.

It was about mid-day when an extraordinary rumour began to spread like wildfire throughout the metropolis.

The report was, that between ten and eleven o'clock that morning, Sir Christopher Blunt and Dr. Lascelles had presented themselves to the sitting magistrate at Bow Street, and had not only communicated to that functionary a surprising account of certain adventures which had happened to themselves, but had likewise placed in his hands a document which proclaimed the innocence of Mr. Torrens, who was lying in Newgate under an accusation of murder.

The adventures alluded to were of such an amazing character, that, had they been related by persons of a less honourable reputation than Sir Christopher Blunt and Dr. Lascelles, they would have been treated as a pure invention on the part either of maniacs or unprincipled friends of the accused.

But the known integrity of those two gentlemen gave no scope for even the slightest breath of suspicion; and their tale, though wonderful, was so consistent in all its parts, that it was received as one of those truths which are "stranger than fiction."

The entire metropolis was in amazement!

Two respectable gentlemen—an eminent physician and a wealthy Justice of the Peace—had been conducted, blindfolded, to a house where they had received the depositions of two men who confessed themselves to be the murderers of the late Sir Henry Courtenay. There was no appearance of fraud in that confession. The men had been cross-examined apart, and had agreed in the minutest details. Every one therefore believed that Mr. Torrens was indeed innocent; and the sitting magistrate at Bow Street expressed the same opinion.

But who was the individual that had caused Sir Christopher Blunt and Dr. Lascelles to be thus made the recipients of the confession of the murderers? Where was the house to which those gentlemen had been taken? What motive was there for screening the assassins? Why was so much mystery observed in the entire transaction? And wherefore had Sir Christopher and the physician been enjoined to withhold the publication of the matter for twenty-four hours after its occurrence?

These questions were in every body's mouth; but no one could suggest any thing resembling even the shadow of a satisfactory solution.

The weapon with which the crime had been perpetrated, and a portion of the proceeds of the robbery effected at Torrens Cottage at the same time, accompanied the depositions placed by Sir Christopher Blunt in the hands of the magistrate; and a surgeon, on examining the corpse which had been removed to the deceased's house previous to receiving the rites of Christian burial, declared that the throat must have been cut by such an instrument as the one thus produced.

But this was not all. The moment the rumour of what had occurred at Bow Street reached the prison of Newgate, the governor hastened to the police-office, and submitted to the magistrate the confession made that morning by Mrs. Torrens.

This confession not only admitted her guilt in respect to the forgery—but gave such a version of the murder, as completely tallied with the depositions made by Timothy Splint and Joshua Pedler.

Looking at the entire case, as it thus stood, there was no doubt of the innocence of Mr. Torrens; and all that gentleman's friends—who, by the bye, had hitherto kept aloof from him—crowded to Newgate to congratulate him on the facts which had transpired.

The sensation created by the affair, throughout the capital, was tremendous; and when the evening papers were published, the copies were greedily caught up in all directions. It was a fine harvest for those journals; and their sale that day was prodigious.

An individual often spoken of, but never yet seen—namely, "the oldest inhabitant in the metropolis"—was duly mentioned on the occasion.

"Never," said each of the evening papers—as if the reporters had all been suddenly struck by the same idea,—"never, within the memory of the oldest inhabitant of the metropolis, has so extraordinary a case transpired."

And certainly no event for many years had produced such a powerful excitement, animating even the most callous and indifferent dispositions with a desire to know more, and setting a-thinking many who had quite enough in their own affairs to occupy all their thoughts.

The taverns, public-houses, and coffee-shops became the scenes of loud and interesting discussions, but even the knowing-ones found no opportunity of displaying their sagacity, for the mystery of the whole affair positively defied conjecture.

"But who can the man be that is at the bottom of all this? and where can his residence be situated?" were the questions which every tongue uttered, and to which no one could reply.

That such an extraordinary incident could occur in the metropolis, without leaving the faintest trace or the smallest clue to the elucidation of the enigma, appeared almost incredible.

As for Sir Christopher Blunt—he certainly did not appear to know whether he stood upon his head or his heels. The Home Secretary sent for him in the course of the afternoon, and received from his lips a full and complete statement of the whole occurrence; for the Government was naturally indignant that any individual should unwarrantably usurp the functions of the proper authorities by holding murderers in his own custody and adopting his own course to prove the innocence of a man in the grasp of justice. Sir Christopher was, however, unable to afford the slightest information which was likely to lead to the discovery of that individual, or of his place of abode.

On his return to his own house in Jermyn Street, Sir Christopher found several noblemen and influential gentlemen, including three or four Members of Parliament, waiting to see him; and he instantly became the lion of the company.

No pen can describe the immense pomposity with which he repeated his narrative of the mysterious transaction: no words can convey an idea of the immeasurable conceit and self-sufficiency with which he described the cross-examination of the murderers.

In fact, the knight made himself so busy in the matter—was so accessible to all visitors who were anxious to gratify their curiosity by asking a thousand questions—and was so ready to afford the newspaper-reporters all the information which he had to impart respecting the incident, that no one thought of applying to Dr. Lascelles in a similar manner. This circumstance was the more agreeable to the physician, inasmuch as he not only disliked wasting his time in gossip, but was well pleased at escaping the necessity of giving vague answers or positive denials in an affair the details of which were in reality no mystery to him.

To all his visitors Sir Christopher Blunt took care to speak in the following terms:—"You see, the individual who is the prime mover in this most extraordinary proceeding, required the assistance of no ordinary magistrate. He wanted a man of keen penetration—the most perfect business-habits—and of the highest character,—a man, in a word, who would probe the very souls of the two miscreants to be placed before him, and on whose report the world could implicitly rely. _That_ was the reason wherefore I was pitched upon as the Justice of the Peace best qualified to undertake so difficult a business."

Sir Christopher became a perfect hero, as the mysterious stranger had predicted; and during the remainder of that memorable day on which the innocence of Mr. Torrens was proclaimed, Jermyn Street was literally lined with carriages, the common destination being the knight's abode;—so that a stranger in the metropolis would have supposed that such a scene of animation and excitement could only be occasioned by the arrival of some great foreign prince, or that the Prime Minister lived in that house and was holding a levée.

When all Sir Christopher's visitors had retired, and he found himself alone in his drawing-room at about half-past ten that evening, he threw himself on a sofa, exclaiming aloud, "Egad! that old fellow, who knocked down the Irish Captain and afterwards turned out to be a young man, was quite right. I am a hero—a regular hero! This popularity is truly delightful. I really do not envy the Duke of Wellington his having won the battle of Waterloo. No, indeed—not I! Sir Christopher Blunt is a greater man than his Grace, although only a knight."

Scarcely had the worthy gentleman arrived at this very satisfactory conclusion, when Mr. Lykspittal entered the room, holding his portfolio in his hand, and bowing so low at every third step which he took in advancing towards the knight, that it really seemed as if he were anxious to ascertain how close to the floor he could put his nose without rolling completely over like the clown at Astley's.

"My revered patron," began Mr. Lykspittal, "I have taken the liberty of bringing the first half dozen pages of the manuscript of the pamphlet——"

"The deuce take the pamphlet, Mr. Lykspittal!" shouted Sir Christopher, leaping from the sofa, and, in the exuberance of his joy, kicking the portfolio from the literary gentleman's hands up to the ceiling, so that the papers all showered down upon the head of their author, who stood amazed and aghast at this singular reception.

But in the next moment it struck the discomfited Mr. Lykspittal that Sir Christopher Blunt had suddenly taken leave of his senses—or, in other words, had gone raving mad; and he rushed to the door.

"Stop—stop!" cried Sir Christopher, darting after him. "What the deuce is the matter with the man?"

"No—don't—don't injure me!" roared Mr. Lykspittal, falling upon his knees, as the knight caught him by the arm.

"Injure you, my good fellow!" exclaimed Sir Christopher, surveying him with the utmost amazement. "What could possibly put such a thing into your head? I am not angry with you: I'm only mad——"

"I know you are!" cried Mr. Lykspittal in a tone of horror, while his countenance expressed the most ludicrous alarm.

"Yes—mad—literally mad—insane—my dear fellow!" vociferated Sir Christopher, quitting his hold upon the literary gentleman and absolutely dancing round him.

"O Lord! O Lord!" groaned Mr. Lykspittal, still upon his knees and nailed by terror to the spot.

"Insane—mad with joy!" cried the knight. "But get up—and don't be frightened. I am not angry with you. But I suppose that the idea of entering the presence of a man like me is too much for you, my poor fellow," added Sir Christopher, stopping short in the midst of his capering antics, and surveying the literary gentleman with immense commiseration.

"Oh! only mad—with joy?" murmured Mr. Lykspittal, considerably relieved by the assurance, and starting to his feet: then, dexterously catching at the suspicion which Sir Christopher, in his boundless self-conceit, had expressed, the literary gentleman suddenly resumed his usual cringing manner, and said in a tone of deep veneration, "Pardon me, my excellent patron, if—for a moment overcome by your presence—the presence of a man whose name is upon every tongue——"

"Say no more about it, my good fellow!" cried the knight, with all the bland condescension of a patron. "To tell you the truth, I am quite beside myself with joy; but I should not expose myself thus to any one save yourself. You are, however, a privileged person—behind the scenes, as it were; and you know how necessary popularity is to me. Egad! Mr. Lykspittal, I little thought when I began life as a poor boy, that I should one day become a great——"

"A _very_ great," meekly suggested the sycophant.

"A very great man," added Sir Christopher, emphatically, as he surveyed himself in a neighbouring mirror. "I tell you what, Mr. Lykspittal—those vulgar citizens of Portsoken must now be ready to cut their throats——"

"A person _did_ expire in that ward very suddenly to-day, Sir Christopher," observed the literary gentleman, drawing upon his imagination for this little incident, which he knew would prove most welcome to the knight's vanity; "and there's every reason to suppose that his death was caused by vexation."

"No doubt of it!" exclaimed the Justice of the Peace, playing with his shirt-frill. "Don't you see that there will be now no necessity for the pamphlets?"

Here Mr. Lykspittal's countenance fell.

"But you shall write instead," continued the knight, "a complete narrative of my most romantic and extraordinary adventures."

Here Mr. Lykspittal's countenance brightened up again.

"No—you shan't, though," cried his patron, an idea striking him.

Again the sycophant's brow became overcast.

"You shall write the history of my life!" added Sir Christopher.

And again the literary gentleman's brow expanded.

"Yes—_The Life_——"

"And _Times_," suggested Mr. Lykspittal.

"_The Life and Times of Sir Christopher Blunt_," exclaimed the knight triumphantly.

"In three volumes, large octavo, with portraits," added the sycophant.

"Egad! that's a capital suggestion of your's—the portraits, I mean," said Sir Christopher. "But you must show that, although I began the world with nothing, yet I am of an ancient and highly respectable family——"

"Certainly, my dear sir. There was no doubt a Blunt at Crecy or Agincourt," observed Mr. Lykspittal. "At all events it is easy to say there was, and in a note put '_See M.S.S., British Museum._' That is the way we always manage in such cases, my dear Sir Christopher. The British Museum is a most convenient place——"

"What—to write in?" asked the Justice of the Peace.

"No, sir—to furnish pedigrees for those who haven't got any."

"Ah! I understand!" cried Sir Christopher, chuckling. "Capital! capital! Well, my good fellow, set about the _Life and Times_ directly. But, by the bye, I wish the work to begin something in this way—'_It was on a dark and tempestiferous night—the wind roared—the artillery flew in fitting gusts—the streaming shafts of electricity shot across the eccentric sky_,'—and so on. That's a pretty sentence, you perceive; and being entirely my own composition—striking me, in fact, at the moment—and not suggested by any other person——"

"It does you infinite credit, Sir Christopher," interrupted Mr. Lykspittal, with an obsequious bow; "and with a _leetle_ correction——"

"Oh! of course you will use your discretion. Well, now we understand each other, Mr. Lykspittal; and you will begin the work immediately. Of course you must introduce a great quantity of correspondence between myself and the leading men of this age, but who are now all dead."

"Have you any such letters by you, sir?" enquired the literary gentleman.

"Not I!" ejaculated Sir Christopher Blunt, speaking bluntly indeed.

"Oh! that's no matter—I can easily invent some," observed Mr. Lykspittal. "I thank you most sincerely for your kind—your generous patronage, my dear Sir Christopher. In fact, I can never forget it—I—I——"

And Mr. Lykspittal, by way of working his sycophancy up to the highest possible pitch—or, shall we not say, down to the lowest degree of self-abasement—affected to burst into tears and rushed from the room.

"Poor fellow! he's quite overcome by his feelings," murmured Sir Christopher to himself. "That's what I call real gratitude, now!"

And, having mused upon this and divers other matters for some few minutes, the worthy knight went up stairs to see his affectionate spouse and the baby, ere he retired to his own apartment.