A Cousin's Conspiracy: or, A Boy's Struggle for an Inheritance

“What is it?”

“My cousin Dudley is dead, and so is his son Ernest. There would be no one to profit by the production of the alleged will.”

Bolton was quite taken aback by this statement, as Stephen Ray perceived, and he plumed himself on the success of his falsehood.

“When did the boy die?” asked Bolton.

“About five years ago.”

“And where?”

“At Savannah,” answered Ray glibly.

“What should have taken him down there?”

“I am not positive, but I believe after his father’s death a Southern gentleman became interested in him and took him to Georgia, where the poor boy died.”

Bolton looked keenly at the face of his companion, and detected an expression of triumph about the eyes which led him to doubt the truth of his story. But he decided not to intimate his disbelief.

“That was sad,” he said.

“Yes, and as you will see, even had your story about the will been true, it would have made no difference in the disposal of the property.”

“Still the revelation of your complicity in the suppression of the last will would injure your reputation, Mr. Ray.”

“I can stand it,” answered Ray with assumed indifference. “You see, my dear fellow, you have brought your wares to the wrong market. Of course you are disappointed.”

“Yes, especially as I am dead broke.”

“No doubt.”

“And it prompts me to take my chances with the will in spite of the death of the rightful heirs.”

“What do you propose to do?”

“Lay the matter before a shrewd lawyer of my acquaintance.”

Stephen Ray looked uneasy. The lawyer might suggest doubts as to the truth of his story concerning Ernest’s decease.

“That would be very foolish,” he said.

“Would it? Then perhaps you can suggest a better course.”

“You are a man of education and have been a lawyer yourself. Get a place in the office of some attorney and earn an honest living.”

“You see how I am dressed. Who would employ me in this garb?”

“There is something in what you say. I feel for you, Bolton. Changed as you are, you were once a friend. I certainly haven’t any reason to feel friendly to you, especially as you came here with the intention of extorting money from me. But I can make allowance for you in your unfortunate plight, and am willing to do something for you. Bring me the document you say you possess, and I will give you fifty – no, a hundred dollars.”

Bolton eyed his prosperous companion with a cunning smile.

“No, Stephen Ray, I prefer to keep the will,” he replied, “though I can do nothing with it. Give me the money unconditionally, and if I get on my feet you will have nothing to fear from me.”

CHAPTER XXVI

BOUGHT OFF

Bolton’s reply did not quite suit Mr. Ray, but he felt that if he said too much about the will it would give it an exaggerated importance in the eyes of the man before him. So he answered carelessly: “I will give you the hundred dollars, but I wish it understood that it is all I can give you at any time. Don’t apply to me again, for it will be of no use.”

“I understand,” said Bolton non-committally.

“Shall I give you a check?”

“I could do better with the money. My name is not known now at any bank.”

“Well, I think I can accommodate you. I believe I have that sum in my desk.”

He opened a drawer in his secretary, and produced a hundred dollars in crisp new bills. They had been taken from the bank the day before for a different purpose.

Bolton took them joyfully. It was long since he had so much money in his possession. He had been his own worst enemy. Once a prosperous lawyer he had succumbed to the love of drink and gradually lost his clients and his position. But he had decided to turn over a new leaf, and he saw in this money the chance to reinstate himself, and in time recover his lost position.

“Thank you,” he said, but while there was relief there was no gratitude in his tone.

“And now,” said Stephen Ray, “I must ask you to leave me. I have important business to attend to. You will excuse me if I suggest it would be better to go away – to a distance – and try to build yourself up somewhat where you are not known.”

“I might go to Savannah.”

“Yes, to Savannah, if you think it will be to your advantage,” said Ray with equanimity.

The other noticed his manner, and he said to himself: “He is willing to have me visit Savannah. It is clear that Ernest did not die there.”

Benjamin Bolton left the house in a pleasant frame of mind. It was not the sum which he had received that exhilarated him. He looked upon it only as the first installment. It was clear that Stephen Ray feared him, for he was not an open-handed man, and would not have parted with his money unnecessarily.

Bolton had not arranged his campaign, but he was determined to raise himself in the world by playing on the fears of the man he had just visited.

“I wonder,” he said to himself, “whether Dudley Ray’s son is dead. If so the document is of no value, and though I should prefer to have it, I won’t insist. He was a strong and healthy boy, and he may still be living.”

This was a point not easy to ascertain.

He went to a restaurant and obtained a substantial meal, of which he stood very much in need. Then he went out for a stroll. He did not propose to leave the place yet.

As he was walking along he met Clarence Ray again, but not now on his wheel. The boy recognized him.

“Are you going to stay in town?” asked Clarence curiously.

“Not long.”

“Did you get through your business with pa?”