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

“What do you mean?”

“You saw him in the hotel at Buffalo. He recognized you, and had a conversation with your son.”

“Had a conversation with Clarence? That is a lie. Clarence never spoke to me about it.”

“You had better question him. But there is no need of sparring. I tell you confidently that Ernest Ray is alive, and demands the estate under his grandfather’s will, which you hold.”

“This is ridiculous. There is but one answer to such a proposal.”

“What is that?”

“I refuse absolutely to make any concession to an impostor.”

“That is your final answer?”

“It is.”

“Then I give you notice that the boy will at once bring suit for the restoration of the estate and the vindication of his rights.”

“I suppose you are his lawyer?” sneered Ray.

“The firm with which I am connected has undertaken the case.”

“What is the firm?” asked Stephen Ray with an anxiety which he could not conceal.

“Norcross & Co.,” answered Bolton.

Great drops of perspiration appeared on the brows of Stephen Ray. He knew well the high reputation and uniform success of the firm in question.

He did not immediately answer, but began to pace the room in agitation. Finally he spoke.

“This has come upon me as a surprise. I thought the boy dead. I may be willing to make some arrangement. Bring him here next week – say Tuesday – and we will talk the matter over.”

“You must do more than talk the matter over, Stephen Ray. A great injustice has been done, the wrong must be righted.”

“Come here next Tuesday,” was the only answer.

The lawyer bowed and withdrew.

CHAPTER XXXVII

ERNEST COMES INTO HIS OWN

On Tuesday Bolton returned with Ernest. Two hours were spent in conference with Stephen Ray. The latter fought hard, but yielded at last. He understood the strength of his opponent’s case.

Ernest consented to receive the estate as it was bequeathed to his father, without any demand for back revenues. Whatever Stephen Ray had accumulated besides, he was allowed to retain.

As this amounted to a hundred thousand dollars, Ray felt that it might have been worse. Had he not been dissuaded by Bolton, Ernest would have consented to share the estate with the usurper, but the lawyer represented that this would be condoning the wrong done to his father.

In a month the whole matter was settled, and Stephen Ray removed to Chicago, where he had business interests.

“But what shall I do with this large house?” asked Ernest. “I don’t want to live here.”

“I know a gentleman who would like to hire it for a term of years,” responded Bolton. “He will pay a rental of five thousand dollars a year. The bonds which you inherit will yield an income equally large.”

“So that my income will be ten thousand dollars a year?” said Ernest, dazzled.

“Yes.”

“What shall I do with it all?”

Bolton smiled.

“You are but seventeen,” he said. “A few years hence you will probably marry. Then you can occupy the house yourself. Meanwhile – ”

“I will go back to California. Luke will expect me. While I am away I appoint you my man of business. I wish you to have charge of my property at a proper commission.”

“I will undertake the charge with pleasure.”

Bolton knew how much this would increase his importance in the eyes of the firm by which he was employed. Ernest could not have made a better choice. Bolton was no longer intemperate. He was shrewd and keen, and loyal to his young employer.

Ernest returned to California, but he had lost his old zest for business, now that his fortune was secure. He soon came East again, and entered upon a plan of study, ending with a college course. He brought with him Frank Fox, the son of the dead outlaw, who regarded him with devoted affection. They lived together, and he placed Frank at a well-known school, justly noted for the success of its pupils.

Of the many boys with whom Frank associated not one suspected that the attractive lad, who was a favorite with all, was a son of the desperado whose deeds were a matter of common knowledge in the West. Ernest had cautioned the boy to say as little as possible of his past history.

Years have gone, what Bolton predicted has come to pass. Ernest is a college graduate, and will soon marry a young lady of high position in the city of New York. He will go abroad for a year, and on his return will make his home on his ancestral estate.

Last week he received a letter from a patient in a New York City hospital. It was signed John Franklin, a name with which he was not familiar.

In some wonder he answered the call, and was led to a bed on which lay a gaunt, spectral man, evidently in the last stage of existence.

“Is this John Franklin?” asked Ernest doubtfully.

“That is the name I go by now,” answered the dying man.

“Do I know you? Have I ever met you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t remember you.”

“If I tell you my real name, will you keep it secret?”

“Yes.”

“Then I am John Fox. You will not betray me?”

“No; certainly not. Can I do anything for you?”