He Knew He Was Right. Anthony Trollope

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. He has a perfect right to go to Lessboro’.”

      “But he has not a right to go to my wife.”

      “And if your wife refuses to see him; or having seen him,—for a man may force his way in anywhere with a little trouble,—if she sends him away with a flea in his ear, as I believe she would—”

      “She is so frightfully indiscreet.”

      “I don’t see what Bozzle can do.”

      “He has found out at any rate that Osborne is there,” said Trevelyan. “I am not more fond of dealing with such fellows than you are yourself. But I think it is my duty to know what is going on. What ought I to do now?”

      “I should do nothing,—except dismiss Bozzle.”

      “You know that that is nonsense, Stanbury.”

      “Whatever I did I should dismiss Bozzle.” Stanbury was now quite in earnest, and, as he repeated his suggestion for the dismissal of the policeman, pushed his writing things away from him. “If you ask my opinion, you know, I must tell you what I think. I should get rid of Bozzle as a beginning. If you will only think of it, how can your wife come back to you if she learns that you have set a detective to watch her?”

      “But I haven’t set the man to watch her.”

      “Colonel Osborne is nothing to you, except as he is concerned with her. This man is now down in her neighbourhood; and, if she learns that, how can she help feeling it as a deep insult? Of course the man watches her as a cat watches a mouse.”

      “But what am I to do? I can’t write to the man and tell him to come away. Osborne is down there, and I must do something. Will you go down to Nuncombe Putney yourself, and let me know the truth?”

      After much debating of the subject, Hugh Stanbury said that he would himself go down to Nuncombe Putney alone. There were difficulties about the D. R.; but he would go to the office of the newspaper and overcome them. How far the presence of Nora Rowley at his mother’s house may have assisted in bringing him to undertake the journey, perhaps need not be accurately stated. He acknowledged to himself that the claims of friendship were strong upon him; and that as he had loudly disapproved of the Bozzle arrangement, he ought to lend a hand to some other scheme of action. Moreover, having professed his conviction that no improper visiting could possibly take place under his mother’s roof, he felt bound to shew that he was not afraid to trust to that conviction himself. He declared that he would be ready to proceed to Nuncombe Putney tomorrow;—but only on condition that he might have plenary power to dismiss Bozzle.

      “There can be no reason why you should take any notice of the man,” said Trevelyan.

      “How can I help noticing him when I find him prowling about the place? Of course I shall know who he is.”

      “I don’t see that you need know anything about him.”

      “My dear Trevelyan, you cannot have two ambassadors engaged in the same service without communication with each other. And any communication with Mr. Bozzle, except that of sending him back to London, I will not have.” The controversy was ended by the writing of a letter from Trevelyan to Bozzle, which was confided to Stanbury, in which the ex-policeman was thanked for his activity and requested to return to London for the present. “As we are now aware that Colonel Osborne is in the neighbourhood,” said the letter, “my friend Mr. Stanbury will know what to do.”

      As soon as this was settled, Stanbury went to the office of the D. R. and made arrangement as to his work for three days. Jones could do the article on the Irish Church upon a pinch like this, although he had not given much study to the subject as yet; and Puddlethwaite, who was great in City matters, would try his hand on the present state of society in Rome, a subject on which it was essential that the D. R. should express itself at once. Having settled these little troubles Stanbury returned to his friend, and in the evening they dined together at a tavern.

      “And now, Trevelyan, let me know fairly what it is that you wish,” said Stanbury.

      “I wish to have my wife back again.”

      “Simply that. If she will agree to come back, you will make no difficulty.”

      “No; not quite simply that. I shall desire that she shall be guided by my wishes as to any intimacies she may form.”

      “That is all very well; but is she to give any undertaking? Do you intend to exact any promise from her? It is my opinion that she will be willing enough to come back, and that when she is with you there will be no further cause for quarrelling. But I don’t think she will bind herself by any exacted promise; and certainly not through a third person.”

      “Then say nothing about it. Let her write a letter to me proposing to come,—and she shall come.”

      “Very well. So far I understand. And now what about Colonel Osborne? You don’t want me to quarrel with him I suppose?”

      “I should like to keep that for myself,” said Trevelyan, grimly.

      “If you will take my advice you will not trouble yourself about him,” said Stanbury. “But as far as I am concerned, I am not to meddle or make with him? Of course,” continued Stanbury, after a pause, “if I find that he is intruding himself in my mother’s house, I shall tell him that he must not come there.”

      “But if you find him installed in your mother’s house as a visitor,—how then?”

      “I do not regard that as possible.”

      “I don’t mean living there,” said Trevelyan, “but coming backwards and forwards;—going on in habits of intimacy with,—with—?” His voice trembled so as he asked these questions, that he could not pronounce the word which was to complete them.

      “With Mrs. Trevelyan, you mean.”

      “Yes; with my wife. I don’t say that it is so; but it may be so. You will be bound to tell me the truth.”

      “I will certainly tell you the truth.”

      “And the whole truth.”

      “Yes; the whole truth.”

      “Should it be so I will never see her again,—never. And as for him;—but never mind.” Then there was another short period of silence, during which Stanbury smoked his pipe and sipped his whisky toddy. “You must see,” continued Trevelyan, “that it is absolutely necessary that I should do something. It is all very well for you to say that you do not like detectives. Neither do I like them. But what was I to do? When you condemn me you hardly realise the difficulties of my position.”

      “It is the deuce of a nuisance certainly,” said Stanbury, through the cloud of smoke,—thinking now not at all of Mrs. Trevelyan, but of Mrs. Trevelyan’s sister.

      “It makes a man almost feel that he had better not marry at all,” said Trevelyan.

      “I don’t see that. Of course there may come troubles. The tiles may fall on your head, you know, as you walk through the streets. As far as I can see, women go straight enough nineteen times out of twenty. But they don’t like being,—what I call looked after.”

      “And did I look after my wife more than I ought?”

      “I don’t mean that; but if I were married,—which I never shall be, for I shall never attain to the respectability of a fixed income,—I fancy I shouldn’t look after my wife at all. It seems to me that women hate to be told about their duties.”

      “But if you saw your wife, quite innocently, falling into an improper intimacy,—taking up with people she ought not to know,—doing that in ignorance, which could not but compromise yourself;—wouldn’t you speak a word then?”

      “Oh!