“Lew--that is exactly the name--I had forgotten--his other name I don’t remember. He was spoken of as Lew----”
“And you could swear to this fellow? You are sure you could swear to him?”
“Swear! oh, with a clear conscience! But don’t ask me to, dear Tom. Think what it is for a delicate woman--the publicity, the notoriety! Oh, don’t make me appear in a court: I should never, never survive it!” she cried.
“Oh, nonsense, mamma!” The respectable son-in-law was so completely innocent of all suspicion that he had adopted his wife’s name for her mother. “But I allow it’s not pleasant for a lady,” he said: “perhaps you won’t be wanted--but you could on an emergency swear to him.”
“If it was of the last necessity,” she said, trembling, and her trembling was very real. She said to herself at the same moment, No! never! appear in an open court with Lew opposite to me,--never! never! She was one of the many people in the world who think, after they have put the match to the gunpowder, that there is still time to do something to make it miss fire.
Tom Blair was very sympathetic with the woman’s tremors who could not appear in a public court, and yet would do so if it was absolutely necessary. He bade her go home to Sophie and have some lunch, and that he would himself return as early as he could, and tell her if he heard anything. And Mrs Ainslie went to the Royal Crescent, where the pair were established, and admired the nice new furniture, and the man in livery of whom Sophie was so proud. But she did not wait to hear what news dear Tom would bring home. She left all sorts of messages for him, telling of engagements she had, and things to be done for Mr Logan. She could not face him again: and it began to appear a danger for her, though she had great confidence in her powers of invention, to be questioned too closely by any one accustomed to evidence, who might turn her inside out before she knew. And, indeed, her mind was very busy working, now that she had put that match to the gunpowder, to prevent it going off. She went into a stationer’s shop on the way to the station, and got paper and an envelope, and wrote, disguising her hand, an anonymous letter to Mrs Ogilvy, bidding her get her guest off at once, for the police were after him. This was a work of art with which Mrs Ainslie was not at all unacquainted, and she flattered herself that the post-mark “Edinburgh” would quench all suggestions of herself as its author. If he only could get away safe without compromising any one, that would be so much better. She did not want to be hard upon him. Oh, not at all. She had been silly, very silly, to think of a meeting: but she bore him no malice. If he had the sense to steal away before any one went after him, that would be far the best and the safest of all.