Chapter XXI

ROGUES IN COUNCIL.

As James Semple went to keep his early appointment with the lawyer’s clerk on the following morning, his great fear was that Beattie might in the meantime have changed his mind. For himself, his indignation and rage knew no bounds. He felt ready to run any risks. But he knew that without the aid of his astute friend he was powerless; and the sense of his impotence only added to his anger.

‘Well, here you are,’ said Beattie, when Semple was shown into his room. ‘Sit down, and have a cup of coffee.’

‘I don’t mind if I do. And you might put a dash of brandy in it. It’s terribly cold to-day. Don’t you find it so?’

‘No.’

‘I dare say not. You’d find no weather cold; you’re cold-blooded, like a leech.’

As soon as the two men were left alone together, Semple drew his chair nearer to Beattie’s and leant forward.

‘Have you thought of anything?’ he asked in a whisper.

Beattie looked at the other’s hungry, wolfish eyes, and turned away, half in disgust.

‘It seems to me, as you said last night, almost a sin not to try to prevent so gross an act of folly as the one we were speaking of,’ he said at last. ‘And a plan has occurred to me that might possibly succeed.’

‘Really! You’re a brick, Beattie. I always said you were. I always knew you had twice as much brains as most fellows.’

Beattie took no notice of this.

‘There is a risk about it, no doubt. There always must be in such cases. But I think the danger may be reduced to a minimum.’

‘What is it? What is your idea?’

‘It will require some care and adroitness on your part, when the critical moment arrives; but I shall ask you to do nothing impossible, or even difficult.’

‘I can’t do any forg——, if you mean that,’ said Semple, with a slight shiver. ‘I really couldn’t. I mean, I haven’t the skill.’

Beattie threw a contemptuous glance at his companion.

‘You surely forget what I said on that point last night,’ he said coldly.

‘But how else are you to manage it? What is your idea?’

‘I may as well tell you now that I don’t take another step unless you give me back that promissory note of mine. You can sign a receipt for the money now, and send me the note when you return to Glasgow. I will burn them both. “Dead men tell no tales.”’

‘Oh, but you know, old man, that’s too much. I let you off a hundred only last night.’

‘What has that to do with it? I gave you a return for the hundred, didn’t I? I tell you I have made up my mind that the old debt must be cleared out of the way to begin with, and I must have half profits if we succeed.’

‘Half profits! Why, you couldn’t touch a penny of it without me!’

‘Nor could you without me.’

And after a little wrangling, Semple was forced to consent to these conditions.

‘Now, what is your precious plan?’ he asked, when he had signed the necessary paper.

‘I think you had better leave that to me,’ said Beattie, as he lit a cigarette.

‘That’s cool, I must say!’

‘As you like,’ answered the other, shrugging his shoulders; ‘but it seems to me that it’s much safer for you to know nothing. I may very probably want your help. But in case of anything coming out, the less you know the better.’

‘I see. All right.’

‘There is one unfortunate circumstance. We can’t secure the whole half-million. We can only get about half of it.’

‘Half of it! Why didn’t you tell me that sooner? Do you think I would have gone shares with you, if I had known that? I won’t do it, and that’s flat.’

Semple could be obstinate enough when he liked; and in the end a compromise was effected. If Semple realized two hundred thousand pounds from his uncle’s estate, Beattie was to have half of the whole. All above two hundred thousand the former was to keep for himself.

‘And now you had better go, as I must go down to the office,’ said Beattie. ‘Well, it’s worth the risk,’ he muttered to himself when he was left alone. ‘A hundred thousand pounds. A very fair sum. Enough to be the foundation of a first-rate fortune,’ And with this pleasant thought in his mind he set out for Theobald’s Road.

Mr. Hatchett was before him that morning, and was busy opening letters when he arrived.

‘There’s a note from that Mr. Lindsay whom you saw last night,’ said the solicitor, tossing it across the table. ‘He wants his nephew to draw his will. He can do it, I suppose?’

Beattie stood with the note in his hand without answering.

‘It doesn’t matter how it is done, for of course you will send the draft to counsel.’

‘There won’t be time for that, I’m afraid,’ said Beattie slowly.

‘Ah! The old man is dying, is he? Then you can look over the draft yourself, you know.’ And Mr. Hatchett began speaking about another matter, to which the managing clerk was forced to give his attention.

When the interview was over, Beattie went to his own room, and throwing on the table the letters and papers which he carried, he sat down and leant his head upon his hand. Then he took up a pen and began idly drawing lines from one blot to another on his writing-pad. Did Alec Lindsay know of this whim of his uncle’s? Probably he did. And if he did not, would it be safe to disregard it? These were the questions that were troubling him.

He was still sitting in the same attitude when a knock came to the door. He started up, and drew one of the papers towards him, as if he were reading it.

‘Come in!’ he cried, and Alec Lindsay walked into the room.

‘Good morning, Beattie. Have you seen the letters to-day?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was there one from my uncle?’

‘Yes; I saw it.’

‘It’s a great nuisance,’ said Alec, seating himself on a corner of the table. ‘I had very much rather not have anything to do with drawing the will, especially as I believe I am to be one of the legatees.’

‘It is hardly usual, certainly. But you are rather busy just now, I think. I’ll do the will for you if you like.’

‘Thank you. But my uncle made me promise that I would see to it myself. I will send the draft to counsel.’

‘There isn’t time for that,’ said Beattie in a decided tone. ‘Mr. Battiwell would keep the draft for a week—three days at least—and your uncle particularly wished it done at once. If anything should happen in the meantime——’

‘I see. Well, you will look over the draft after I have done it?’

‘If you like. But it’s the easiest thing in the world. A child might do it. You have nothing to do but follow the precedent. By the way,’ he added, ‘I suppose your uncle has told you of his intentions?’

‘He told me he meant to leave the bulk of his property to the Free Church.’

‘What can have put such an absurd notion into his head?’

‘Well, I fancy a Dr. Mackenzie, who is staying with him just now, may have had something to do with it.’

‘Ah! A minister, I suppose. Your uncle is a good deal under his influence, I dare say?’

‘No; I don’t think so. And really I don’t know that Dr. Mackenzie even suggested it.’

‘Well, it’s no business of mine,’ said Beattie, shrugging his shoulders.

‘Will you give me the paper of instructions?’ said Alec, after a pause.

‘Certainly; here it is.’ And Mr. Beattie turned to the other documents before him, with an air that said, ‘I have wasted too many minutes already.’

But as soon as Alec had left the room, he relapsed into his former attitude. Presently he rose and paced up and down the room with slow, cat-like steps. Then he paused at the window, and stood there for more than half an hour, looking out at the blank wall opposite him. ‘That might do,’ he said to himself at last, as he turned away. ‘It ought to succeed. There is a risk, certainly; but we can’t help that.’

Then Mr. Beattie put on his hat, and going to a telegraph-office some little way off, he sent this message to his friend James Semple:

‘Meet me at the Cosmopolitan this afternoon at four o’clock.’

About three o’clock he went into Alec Lindsay’s room.

‘Well, how are you getting on with the will?’

‘The draft is nearly finished. I have not been able to go on with it steadily, or it would have been done sooner. Will you look over it now?’

‘You can put it on my table when it is ready. I suppose you will send it to your uncle to-night?’

‘Yes. I will send it by to-night’s post.’

‘You had better say in your note that if the draft is satisfactory it may be returned to us to-night, and we will bring it to be executed on Thursday morning. There will be plenty of time to have it engrossed to-morrow.’

‘Very well. I will do that.’

‘And, I say, Lindsay, I think you had better not send it to the law stationer’s.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the man who copied your draft at the law stationer’s would be sure to speak of it. How foolish your uncle would look if a paragraph about his bequest got into the papers, and if he afterwards changed his mind, as very likely he may do.’

Alec shook his head.

‘You don’t know my uncle, or you wouldn’t talk of his changing his mind. But I’ll give it to one of the fellows in the office to engross.’

‘It is much better to have things of that sort copied in the office.’

With these words Beattie left the room, and shortly afterwards he quietly went out.

When Alec finished the draft, he took it to the managing clerk’s room, and as no one was there he left it on the table as he had been told to do. About five o’clock he wrote the note to his uncle which Beattie had suggested to him, and he told the clerk whose duty it was to post the letters that Mr. Beattie would give him the document that was to be sent with the note. Having done this, Alec went home.

The clerk found the draft of the will on Mr. Beattie’s table. He was not quite sure that his superior had seen it, for Mr. Beattie was not in the office; but thinking he might be held responsible if the letter were delayed, he sent it off with the draft.

‘Do you know that your uncle had specially desired that Alec Lindsay should draw his will?’ were Beattie’s first words to his friend, when he met him at the restaurant at four o’clock.

‘No! Then the game is up!’

‘I’m not so sure of that. There is a chance yet. It will depend on your skill and coolness.’

‘On mine! I thought you said I was to know nothing, and do nothing.’

‘And wait till the gold fell into your lap, eh?’ sneered Beattie. ‘I shall have my own share of trouble, and danger too, I can tell you. You may believe me that if I could do it all myself, I wouldn’t risk leaving it to you.’

‘Then why don’t you do it?’

‘Do I live at No. 21, Claremont Gardens?’ asked Beattie savagely.

‘What do you want me to do?’ asked the other.

‘I’ll tell you when the time comes. But why did you leave me to find out about this minister, this Dr. Mackenzie? Why didn’t you tell me about him?’

‘I didn’t think it was of any importance.’

‘Of no importance! I suppose he knows all about your uncle’s intentions?’

‘I suppose he does.’

‘Anybody else?’

‘Not that I know of. I think not.’

‘Very well. Now listen to me. The draft of the will will be sent to your uncle to-night, with a request that it should be returned by to-night’s post. It will be delivered about eight or nine o’clock, I imagine. Your business will be to keep this Dr. Mackenzie out of the way. Take him to some meeting—anywhere, in fact, but keep him out of the house till your uncle has sent back the draft to us. You understand?’

‘Yes; I’ll see what I can do.’

‘You’ll do nothing of the kind. You’ll do it.’

‘I don’t know why you should speak in that way to me, Beattie!’

‘Neither do I. All I know is, that no one must see the draft except your uncle himself.’

‘I suppose I may read it, if he offers it to me?’

‘No. Make some excuse, and don’t look at it. I know all that is in it. And remember this: the minister must not be present on Thursday morning when the will is executed. Can’t you make him go back to Scotland?’

‘How can I manage that?’

‘Insult him. Turn him out of doors.’

‘Impossible.’

‘If you can’t manage it somehow, you may say good-bye at once to your hundred thousand pounds.’

‘I’ll do what I can; you may be sure of that,’ said Semple sulkily.

‘And there’s one other thing. You remember that paper of instructions I showed you? We must get hold of that. I was forced to give it to your cousin this morning, that he might prepare the will from it. He may leave it in his desk at the office: if so, I’ll get possession of it. Or he may have sent it to your uncle with the draft. Your uncle may destroy it, or he may keep it, or he may send it back to the office with the draft. In the first case it will be all right. If he sends it back to the office I shall be able to lay my hands on it. But if he lays it by, you must get it and bring it to me. It must not be found among his papers after his death.’

‘I quite see the importance of that. What I don’t see is, how I can take Dr. Mackenzie out for the evening, and yet be in my uncle’s room when the post comes in, to see what he does with the paper.’

‘It is a difficulty; but you must try to find a way out of it. Come now, Semple, you have plenty of brains. Is there no one in the house that will help you?’

‘No one—unless—I might try it,’ he added, as if speaking to himself.

‘Is it of any use to try to get Alec Lindsay on our side? If he would consent simply to hold his tongue, it would be the easiest thing possible.’

Semple shook his head emphatically.

‘You won’t get any help there,’ he said.

‘I thought as much. Well, I shall go back to the office after dinner, and hunt about for that paper of instructions. You will be on the look-out for the evening delivery, and ascertain what your uncle does with it, if it reaches him. Keep the minister out of the way; and come to my lodgings to-morrow evening.’

‘At what hour?’

‘Any hour you like. But if I am not in, wait for me, even if you should have to wait all night. I must see you to-morrow night.’

Semple promised that he would keep the appointment, and, calling a cab, went straight home. During the drive he racked his brains to discover some method of inducing Dr. Mackenzie to spend the evening elsewhere, without being able to think of any practicable plan.

Fortune, however, favoured him. In the library he found an evening paper containing a notice of a meeting in Exeter Hall which he thought might prove an attraction to the Presbyterian minister.

‘Did you see that the deputation of the American Missionary Society is to be present at the meeting in Exeter Hall?’ he asked Dr. Mackenzie.

‘No; when is the meeting to be?’

‘To-night.’

‘Are you going to be there?’

‘I—I—don’t know. I was thinking of it. Would you like to go?’ said Semple.

‘If you go, I should be happy to accompany you. I am a stranger in London, and I don’t care to go out alone at night.’

This struck Semple as odd. The minister did not look like a man who would be afraid to go out alone at night. However, he saw that the only way to get Dr. Mackenzie out of the way was to accompany him to Exeter Hall; and accordingly he arranged to do so.

The fact was that Dr. Mackenzie had resolved to stay by Mr. Lindsay until the will was executed, and be ready to fortify him against the attacks which he supposed the rich man’s relations would naturally make upon his resolution to enrich the Free Church at their expense. After skilful indirect questioning he had satisfied himself that neither Miss Lindsay nor Miss Mowbray knew what the old man’s intentions were. There remained the two nephews. As to Alec, Mr. Lindsay himself had told his spiritual adviser that he had confided in his nephew, and had made him promise to attend personally to the preparing of the will—a proceeding which Dr. Mackenzie strongly disapproved of, though he was too prudent to say anything on the subject. He was quite convinced that anything Alec could do to prevent the bequest being made would be done.

With regard to Semple, Dr. Mackenzie was inclined to think, from the young man’s manner towards himself, that he knew of his uncle’s resolution; and the minister determined to do what he could to keep Mr. Lindsay and Semple apart for the short time which had to elapse before the will could be actually signed. For this reason he thought it imprudent to absent himself for the whole evening, and allow Semple to spend as much time as he chose in his uncle’s room without interruption. He had, therefore, managed to make the young man accompany him on his expedition to Exeter Hall.

But Semple had only performed half his task when he had induced Dr. Mackenzie to spend that evening where he would be beyond his uncle’s reach. How was he to learn what became of the paper of instructions in Beattie’s handwriting, on the possession of which his fellow-conspirator laid so much stress? This could only be done by the help of an ally; and there was only one possible ally at his command.

He waylaid Laura Mowbray as she passed downstairs to dinner, and drew her into a little apartment that was used as a kind of housekeeper’s-room.

‘I want to speak to you, Laura,’ he said; ‘and I have only a minute to spare. Are you willing to do me a favour?’

‘That depends.’

‘Don’t be foolish. Say yes or no. Don’t you know that our whole future hangs on what may happen during the next day or two?’

‘I suspected as much,’ answered Laura quietly; ‘your future, you mean. I don’t see how my future is concerned.’

‘Don’t you? Are not our interests the same?’

‘Not yet.’

‘But they will be. Now, I only want you to do this. To-night, most likely by the last delivery, a packet will come by post for my uncle. It will contain a letter, a bulky document, and another paper, a single sheet of foolscap folded in four. The first two I don’t care a straw about; but I want to know what my uncle does with the thin paper, the sheet of foolscap. Will you manage to find out this for me?’

Laura hesitated. She had no idea of being a tool in the hands of anyone; and she was not sure that she should have allowed Semple’s words as to the identity of his interests and hers to pass unchallenged. Her one desire was to discover whether Semple or (as she hoped) Alec Lindsay was to be the old man’s heir. But in a moment she had decided to make herself useful, on the chance of inducing Semple to tell her something. As she wisely reflected, she could get the information which he wanted without any trouble, and either tell him what he wished to know, or hold her tongue, as circumstances might decide. She therefore whispered:

‘All right. Hush; I must go now. I hear Miss Lindsay coming down.’

Miss Mowbray proved abundantly capable of executing the commission which had been intrusted to her.

She listened for the postman’s ring, and, crossing the hall apparently by chance, said to the servant who had answered the door-bell:

‘Is that letter for Mr. Lindsay?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you may give it to me. I am going to his room now.’

On reaching the old man’s bedroom, she closed the door softly behind her, and going up to him with swift, noiseless steps, she said:

‘Dr. Mackenzie and James have gone out, uncle; and Miss Lindsay is asleep; so I have come to you for company. Do you mind my sitting here half an hour, while nurse goes to supper? Shall I disturb you?’

‘No, child, no. I like to see you.’

‘I will sit by the fire, then, and be as still as a mouse. Here is a letter that the postman has just handed in. I took it from Marks as I came upstairs.’