David Allen, who was now the legal heir to the estate and its income. Allen was the impecunious son of the Squire's sister who had married badly. It is hard to starve when one is heir to a fine property, but that is what David did, and it soured him. The Jews would not lend on the security—the son might return—so David Allen waited for a dead man's shoes, impoverished and embittered.
At last the shoes were ready for him to step into. The old Squire died as a gentleman should, of apoplexy, in his armchair, with a decanter at his elbow. David Allen entered into his belated inheritance, and his first act was to discharge every servant, male and female, about the place and engage others who owed their situations to him alone. Then were the Jews sorry they had not trusted him.
He was now rich but broken in health, with bent shoulders, without a friend on the earth. He was a man suspicious of all the world, and he had a furtive look over his shoulder as if he expected Fate to deal him a sudden blow—as indeed it did.
It was a beautiful June day, when there passed the porter's lodge and walked up the avenue to the main entrance of the Hall a man whose face was bronzed by a torrid sun. He requested speech with the master and was asked into a room to wait.
At length David Allen shuffled in, with his bent shoulders, glaring at the intruder from under his bushy eyebrows. The stranger rose as he entered and extended his hand.
"You don't know me, of course. I believe we have never met before. I am your cousin."
Allen ignored the outstretched hand.
"I have no cousin," he said.
"I am Bernard Heaton, the son of your uncle."
"Bernard Heaton is dead."
"I beg your pardon, he is not. I ought to know, for I tell you I am he."
"You lie!"
Heaton, who had been standing since his cousin's entrance, now sat down again, Allen remaining on his feet.
"Look here," said the new-comer. "Civility costs nothing and–"
"I cannot be civil to an impostor."
"Quite so. It is difficult. Still, if I am an impostor, civility can do no harm, while if it should turn out that I am not an impostor, then your present tone may make after arrangements all the harder upon you. Now will you oblige me by sitting down? I dislike, while sitting myself, talking to a standing man."
"Will you oblige me by stating what you want before I order my servants to turn you out?"
"I see you are going to be hard on yourself. I will endeavour to keep my temper, and if I succeed it will be a triumph for a member of our family. I am to state what I want? I will. I want as my own the three rooms on the first floor of the south wing—the rooms communicating with each other. You perceive I at least know the house. I want my meals served there, and I wish to be undisturbed at all hours. Next I desire that you settle upon me say five hundred a year—or six hundred —out of the revenues of the estate. I am engaged in scientific research of a peculiar kind. I can make money, of course, but I wish my mind left entirely free from financial worry. I shall not interfere with your enjoyment of the estate in the least."
"I'll wager you will not. So you think I am fool enough to harbour and feed the first idle vagabond that comes along and claims to be my dead cousin. Go to the courts with your story and be imprisoned as similar perjurers have been."
"Of course I don't expect you to take my word for it. If you were any judge of human nature you would see I am not a vagabond. Still that's neither here nor there. Choose three of your own friends. I will lay my proofs before them and abide by their decision. Come, nothing could be fairer than that, now could it?"
"Go to the courts, I tell you."
"Oh, certainly. But only as a last resort. No wise man goes to law if there is another course open. But what is the use of taking such an absurd position? You know I'm your cousin. I'll take you blindfold into every room in the place."
"Any discharged servant could do that. I have had enough of you. I am not a man to be black-mailed. Will you leave the house yourself, or shall I call the servants to put you out?"
"I should be sorry to trouble you," said Heaton, rising. "That is your last word, I take it?"
"Absolutely."
"Then good-bye. We shall meet at Philippi."
Allen watched him disappear down the avenue, and it dimly occurred to him that he had not acted diplomatically.
Heaton went directly to lawyer Grey, and laid the case before him. He told the lawyer what his modest demands were, and gave instructions that if, at any time before the suit came off, his cousin would compromise, an arrangement avoiding publicity should be arrived at.
"Excuse me for saying that looks like weakness," remarked the lawyer.
"I know it does," answered Heaton. "But my case is so strong that I can afford to have it appear weak."
The lawyer shook his head. He knew how uncertain the law was. But he soon discovered that no compromise was possible.
The case came to trial, and the verdict was entirely in favour of Bernard Heaton.
The pallor of death spread over the sallow face of David Allen, as he realised that he was once again a man without a penny or a foot of land. He left the court with bowed head, speaking no word to those who had defended him. Heaton hurried after him, overtaking him on the pavement.
"I knew this had to be the result," he said to the defeated man. "No other outcome was possible. I have no desire to cast you penniless into the street. What you refused to me I shall be glad to offer you. I will make the annuity a thousand pounds."
Allen, trembling, darted one look of malignant hate at his cousin.
"You successful scoundrel!" he cried. "You and your villainous confederate Grey. I tell you–"
The blood rushed to his mouth; he fell upon the pavement and died. One and the same day had robbed him of his land and his life.
Bernard Heaton deeply regretted the tragic issue, but went on with his researches at the Hall, keeping much to himself. Lawyer Grey, who had won renown by his conduct of the celebrated case, was almost his only friend. To him Heaton partially disclosed his hopes, told what he had learned during those years he had been lost to the world in India, and claimed that if he succeeded in combining the occultism of the East with the science of the West, he would make for himself a name of imperishable renown.
The lawyer, a practical man of the world, tried to persuade Heaton to abandon his particular line of research, but without success.
"No good can come of it," said Grey. "India has spoiled you. Men who dabble too much in that sort of thing go mad. The brain is a delicate instrument. Do not trifle with it."
"Nevertheless," persisted Heaton, "the great discoveries of the twentieth century are going to be in that line, just as the great discoveries of the nineteenth century have been in the direction of electricity."
"The cases are not parallel. Electricity is a tangible substance."
"Is it? Then tell me what it is composed of? We all know how it is generated, and we know partly what it will do, but what is it?"
"I shall have to charge
