wishes. The discussion was a stormy one, and terminated as I hoped and believed it would. My cousin went forth from the house, disowned and disinherited, and I remained, filling his place as heir.”
Jacob surveyed the speaker with a glance of admiration. He paid homage to a rascality which surpassed his own. He admired his craftiness and address, while his want of principle did not repel him.
“What became of your cousin?” inquired the scrivener, after a pause.
“He married and went out West. He possessed a small property inherited from his mother, and this enabled him to live in a humble way. I have heard little of him since, except that he had but one child, a daughter, who must now be not far from fourteen years old. This I learned from a letter of her father’s which I intercepted.”
“Has your uncle ever shown any symptoms of relenting?” asked Jacob.
“Two years ago he was very sick and it was thought he might die. During that sickness he referred so often to his son that I began to tremble for my prospective inheritance. I accordingly procured a notice of his death to be inserted in a Chicago paper, which I took care to show my uncle. The authenticity of this he never dreamed of doubting, and I felt that my chances were as good as ever. But within the last week a fact has come to my knowledge which fills me with alarm.”
The copyist looked up inquiringly.
“It is this,” resumed Lewis. “Not only is my cousin living, but he is in this city. Furthermore my uncle has seen him, and but for my solemn assurance that he was mistaken, and my recalling to his recollection that Robert’s death was well attested, he would have taken immediate measures for finding him out. If found, he would be at once reinstated in his birthright, and I should be reduced to the position of a humble dependent upon my uncle’s bounty.”
“But you have escaped the danger, and all is well again.”
“By no means. Notwithstanding my representation, my uncle clings obstinately to the belief that either he or some child of his may be living, and only yesterday caused a new will to be drawn up, leaving the bulk of his estate to his son or his son’s issue; and, failing these, to me. You will readily see how I stand affected by this. Of course in the event of my cousin’s death a search will be immediately instituted for my cousin and his daughter, and being in the city they will probably be found.”
“Your prospects are certainly not of the most encouraging character,” said Jacob, after a pause. “But, if I may venture to inquire, what assurance have you that such is the tenor of your uncle’s will?”
“This,” replied Rand, taking from a side-pocket a piece of parchment tied with a blue ribbon, and leisurely unrolling it. Jacob watched his movements with curiosity.
“This,” said he, bending a searching glance upon the scrivener, as if to test his fidelity; “this is my uncle’s will.”
The copyist could not repress a start of astonishment.
“The will!” he exclaimed. “How did you obtain possession of it?”
Lewis smiled.
“It was for my interest,” he said briefly, “to learn the contents of this document, and I therefore made it my business to find it. You see that I have been successful. Read it.”
The copyist drew the lamp nearer, and read it slowly and deliberately.
“Yes,” said he, at length, looking up thoughtfully; “the contents are as you have described. May I ask what it is your intention to do about it, and what is the service I am to render you?”
“Can you not guess?” demanded his visitor, fixing his eyes meaningly upon him.
“No,” returned the scrivener, a little uneasily; “I cannot.”
“You are skilful with the pen, exceedingly skilful,” resumed Lewis, meaningly. “Indeed, there has been a time when this accomplishment came near standing you in good stead, though it might also have turned to your harm.”
Jacob winced.
“Ah!” pursued the visitor, “I see you have not forgotten a little occurrence in the past, when, but for my intervention, you might have been convicted of—shall I say it?—forgery. You need not thank me. I never do anything without a motive. I don’t believe in disinterestedness. The idea struck me even at that time that I might at some time have need of you.”
“I am ready,” said Jacob, submissively.
“That is well. What I want you to do is this. You must draw me up another will as nearly like this as possible, except that the whole estate shall be devised to me unconditionally. Well, man, what means that look of alarm?”
“It will be very dangerous to both of us,” faltered the copyist.
“It will be a forgery, I admit,” said Lewis, calmly; “but what is there in that word, forgery, which should so discompose you? Did it ever occur to you that the old charge might be renewed against you, when no intervention of mine will avail to save you?”
The copyist perceived the threat implied in those words, and hastened to propitiate his visitor, of whom he seemed to stand in wholesome fear.
“Nay,” said he, submissively, “you know best the danger to both of us.”
“And I tell you, Jacob, there is none at all. You are so cunning with the pen that you may easily defy detection, and for the rest, I will take the hazard.”
“And what will be the recompense?” inquired the scrivener.
“Two hundred dollars as soon as the task is completed,” was the prompt reply. “One thousand more when the success of the plan is assured.”
Jacob’s eyes sparkled. To him the bribe was a fortune.
“I consent,” he said; “give me the will. I must study it for a time to become familiar with the handwriting.”
He drew the lamp nearer and began to pore earnestly over the manuscript, occasionally scrawling with the pen which he held in his hand an imitation of some of the characters. It was a study for an artist,—those two men,—each determined upon a wrong deed for the sake of personal advantage. Lewis, with his cool, self-possessed manner, and the copyist, with his ignoble features and nervous eagerness, divided between the desire of gain and the fear of detection.
All this time a woman’s eye might have been seen peering through a slightly open door, and regarding with a careful glance all that was passing. The two men were so intent upon the work before them that she escaped their notice.
“Oho,” said she to herself, “there shall be a third in the secret which you fancy confined to yourselves. Who knows but it may turn out to my advantage, some day? I will stay and see the whole.”
She drew back silently, and took her position just behind the door, where nothing that was said could escape her.
Meanwhile Jacob, having satisfied himself that he could imitate the handwriting of the will, commenced the task of copying. Half an hour elapsed during which both parties preserved strict silence. At the end of that time the copyist, with a satisfied air, handed Lewis the manuscript he had completed. The latter compared the two with a critical eye. Everything, including the names of the witnesses, was wonderfully like. It was extremely difficult from the external appearance,
