Lawyer Ball thought things were becoming clearer—­or darker, whatever you may please to call it.  He paused again, and then put a question impressively.

“James, have you any doubt whatever, or shadow of doubt, that Sir Francis Levison is the same man you know as Thorn?”

“Sir, have I any doubt that you are Mr. Ball, or that I am Eb.  James?” retorted Mr. Ebenezer.  “I am as certain of that man’s identity as I am of yours.”

“Are you ready to swear to that fact in a court of justice?”

“Ready and willing, in any court in the world.  To-morrow, if I am called upon.”

“Very well.  You may go back to your singing club now.  Keep a silent tongue in your head.”

“All close, sir,” answered Mr. Ebenezer James.

Far into the middle of the night sat Lawyer Ball and Richard Hare, the former chiefly occupied in taking notes of Richard’s statement.

“It’s half a crochet, this objection of Carlyle’s to interfere with Levison,” suddenly uttered Richard, in the midst of some desultory conversation.  “Don’t you think so, Mr. Ball?”

The lawyer pursed up his lips.  “Um!  A delicate point.  Carlyle was always fastidiously honorable. I should go at him, thunder and fury, in his place; but I and Carlyle are different.”

The following day, Tuesday, Mr. Ball was much occupied, putting, to use nearly Ebenezer James’ words, that and that together.  Later in the day he took a journey to Levison Park, ferreted out some information, and came home again.  On that same day, at evening, Richard departed for Liverpool—­he was done with for the present—­Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle being, as before, alone cognizant of his address.

Wednesday morning witnessed the arrival again of the Earl of Mount Severn.  Lord Vane, too.  The latter ought to have gone back to Eton, but he had teased and prayed to be allowed to “see the fun out,” meaning the election.  “And that devil’s discomfiture when he finds himself beaten,” he surreptitiously added, behind his father’s back, who was a great stickler for the boy’s always being “gentlemanly.”  So the earl had yielded.  They arrived, as before, about breakfast-time, having traveled all night.  Subsequently, they and Mr. Carlyle walked into West Lynne together.

West Lynne was alive and astir.  The election was to come off that week, and people made it their business to be in a bustle over it, collectively and individually.  Mr. Carlyle’s committee sat at the Buck’s Head, and the traffic in and out was enough to wear the stones away.  The bench of justices were remarkably warm over it, neglecting the judicial business, and showing themselves at the Buck’s Head windows in purple and scarlet streamers.

“I will be with you in ten minutes,” said Mr. Carlyle, withdrawing his arm from Lord Mount Severn’s, as they approached his office, “but I must go in and read my letters.”