But one day my cousin's actions and words set me thinking.
Roger was only a tanner; therefore after a deal of stir in the matter of
his death with no result more tangible than vague insinuations from
Crofts and his friends, the investigation by the London authorities was
dropped, at least for a time. Roger's tragedy was forgotten or was put
aside, save in so far as it was kept alive by Crofts, who felt that it
was well to keep the person of George Hamilton as a fender between
himself and the crime.
So, as frequently happens when a bad man turns good, Hamilton's troubles
began to gather and were awaiting his return. I did not know where he was
(though I afterwards learned he was in Paris), and therefore was unable
to warn him. In fact, I knew little that was worth telling him at the
time of which I am writing, since I did not believe he was really in
danger. I did not even know that he was aware of the Roger Wentworth
tragedy.
Meantime Frances was making progress at court, of which even I, with all
my hopefulness, had little dreamed. What she desired above all else was
money for her father. Sir Richard and Sarah had moved up to London to be
near Frances and were living in a modest little house at the end of a
cul-de-sac called Temple Street, just off the Strand near Temple Bar.
The opportunity to get money soon came to Frances in the form of an offer
by the king of a small pension which would have placed her and her father
beyond the pale of want.
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