THE WALLET
"A queer, mysterious business this death of Samoval," said Colonel Grant.
"So I was beginning to perceive," Wellington agreed, his brow dark.
They were alone together in the quadrangle under the trellis, through which the sun, already high, was dappling the table at which his lordship sat.
"It would be easier to read if it were not for the duelling swords.
Those and the nature of Samoval's wound certainly point unanswerably to a duel. Otherwise there would be considerable evidence that Samoval was a spy caught in the act and dealt with out of hand as he deserved."
"How? Count Samoval a spy?"
"In the French interest," answered the colonel without emotion, "acting upon the instructions of the Souza faction, whose tool he had become." And Colonel Grant proceeded to relate precisely what he knew of Samoval.
Lord Wellington sat awhile in silence, cogitating. Then he rose, and his piercing eyes looked up at the colonel, who stood a good head taller than himself.
"Is this the evidence of which you spoke?"
"By no means," was the answer. "The evidence I have secured is much more palpable. I have it here." He produced a little wallet of red morocco bearing the initial "S " surmounted by a coronet.
Opening it, he selected from it some papers, speaking the while.
"I thought it as well before I left last night to make an examination of the body. This is what I found, and it contains, among other lesser documents, these to which I would draw your lordship's attention. First this." And he placed in Lord Wellington's hand a holograph note from the Prince of Esslingen introducing the bearer, M. de la Fleche, his confidential agent, who would consult with the Count, and thanking the Count for the valuable information already received from him.
His lordship sat down again to read the letter. "It is a full confirmation of what you have told me," he said calmly.
"Then this," said Colonel Grant, and he placed upon the table a note in French of the approximate number and disposition of the British troops in Portugal at the time. "The handwriting is Samoval's own, as those who know it will have no difficulty in discerning. And now this, sir." He unfolded a small sketch map, bearing the title also in French: Probable position and extent of the fortifications north of Lisbon.
"The notes at the foot," he added, "are in cipher, and it is the ordinary cipher employed by the French, which in itself proves how deeply Samoval was involved. Here is a translation of it." And he placed before his chief a sheet of paper on which Lord Wellington read:
"This is based upon my own personal knowledge of the country, odd scraps of information received from time to time, and my personal verification of the roads closed to traffic in that region. It is intended merely as a guide to the actual locale of the fortifications, an exact plan of which I hope shortly to obtain."
His lordship considered it very attentively, but without betraying the least discomposure.
"For a man working upon such slight data as he himself confesses," was the quiet comment, "he is damnably accurate. It is as well, I think, that this did not reach Marshal Massena."
"My own assumption is that he put off sending it, intending to replace it by the actual plan - which he here confesses to the expectation of obtaining shortly."
"I think he died at the right moment. Anything else?"
"Indeed," said Colonel Grant, "I have kept the best for the last."
And unfolding yet another document, he placed it in the hands of the Commander-in-Chief. It was Lord Liverpool's note of the troops to be embarked for Lisbon in June and July - the note abstracted from the dispatch carried by Captain Garfield.
His lordship's lips tightened as he considered it. "His death was timely indeed, damned timely; and the man who killed him deserves to be mentioned in dispatches. Nothing else, I suppose?"
"The rest is of little consequence, sir."
"Very well." He rose. "You will leave these with me, and the wallet as well, if you please. I am on my way to confer with the members of the Council of Regency, and I am glad to go armed with so stout a weapon as this. Whatever may be the ultimate finding of the court-martial, the present assumption must be that Samoval met the death of a spy caught in the act, as you suggested. That is the only conclusion the Portuguese Government can draw when I lay these papers before it. They will effectively silence all protests."
"Shall I tell O'Moy?" inquired the colonel.
"Oh, certainly," answered his lordship, instantly to change his mind. "Stay!" He considered, his chin in his hand, his eyes dreamy.
"Better not, perhaps. Better not tell anybody. Let us keep this to ourselves for the present. It has no direct bearing on the matter to be tried. By the way, when does the court-martial sit?"
"I have just heard that Marshal Beresford has ordered it to sit on Thursday here at Monsanto."
His lordship considered. "Perhaps I shall be present. I may be at Torres Vedras until then. It is a very odd affair. What is your own impression of it, Grant? Have you formed any?"
Grant smiled darkly. "I have been piecing things together. The result is rather curious, and still very mystifying, still leaving a deal to be explained, and somehow this wallet doesn't fit into the scheme at all."
"You shall tell me about it as we ride into Lisbon. I want you to come with me. Lady O'Moy must forgive me if I take French leave, since she is nowhere to be found."
The truth was, that her ladyship had purposely gone into hiding, after the fashion of suffering animals that are denied expression of their pain. She had gone off with her load of sorrow and anxiety into the thicket on the flank of Monsanto, and there Sylvia found her presently, dejectedly seated by a spring on a bank that was thick with flowering violets. Her ladyship was in tears, her mind swollen to bursting-point by the secret which it sought to contain but felt itself certainly unable to contain much longer.
