‘I may never have to explain, or, on the other hand, I may,’ she answered. ‘I have not really sent for you to point out this advertisement, but in connection with another matter. Now, pray, come into the next room with me.’
She led me into a prettily and luxuriously furnished boudoir on the same floor. Standing by the hearth was a slender fair-haired girl, looking very little more than a child.
‘May I introduce you to my cousin, Letitia Ransom?’ said Miss Cusack, eagerly. ‘Pray sit down, Letty,’ she continued, addressing the girl with a certain asperity, ‘Dr Lonsdale is the man of all others we want. Now, doctor, will you give me your very best attention, for I have an extraordinary story to relate.’
At Miss Cusack’s words Miss Ransom immediately seated herself. Miss Cusack favoured her with a quick glance, and then once more turned to me.
‘You are much interested in queer mental phases, are you not?’ she said.
‘I certainly am,’ I replied.
‘Well, I should like to ask your opinion with regard to such a will as this.’
Once again she unfolded a newspaper, and, pointing to a paragraph, handed it to me. I read as follows:
EXTRAORDINARY TERMS OF A MISER’S WILL.
Mr Henry Bovey, who died last week at a small house at Kew, has left one of the most extraordinary wills on record. During his life his eccentricities and miserly habits were well known, but this eclipses them all, by the surprising method in which he has disposed of his property.
Mr Bovey was unmarried, and, as far as can be proved, has no near relations in the world. The small balance at his banker’s is to be used for defraying fees, duties, and sundry charges, also any existing debts, but the main bulk of his securities were recently realised, and the money in sovereigns is locked in a safe in his house.
A clause in the will states that there are three claimants to this property, and that the one whose net bodily weight is nearest to the weight of these sovereigns is to become the legatee. The safe containing the property is not to be opened till the three claimants are present; the competition is then to take place, and the winner is at once to remove his fortune.
Considerable excitement has been manifested over the affair, the amount of the fortune being unknown. The date of the competition is also kept a close secret for obvious reasons.
‘Well,’ I said, laying the paper down, ‘whoever this Mr Bovey was, there is little doubt that he must have been out of his mind. I never heard of a more crazy idea.’
‘Nevertheless it is to be carried out,’ replied Miss Cusack. ‘Now listen, please, Dr Lonsdale. This paper is a fortnight old. It is now three weeks since the death of Mr Bovey, his will has been proved, and the time has come for the carrying out of the competition. I happen to know two of the claimants well, and intend to be present at the ceremony.’
I did not make any answer, and after a pause she continued:
‘One of the gentlemen who is to be weighed against his own fortune is Edgar Wimburne. He is engaged to my cousin Letitia. If he turns out to be the successful claimant there is nothing to prevent their marrying at once; if otherwise…’ – here she turned and looked full at Miss Ransom, who stood up, the colour coming and going in her cheeks – ‘if otherwise, Mr Campbell Graham has to be dealt with.’
‘Who is he?’ I asked.
‘Another claimant, a much older man than Edgar. Nay, I must tell you everything. He is a claimant in a double sense, being also a lover, and a very ardent one, of Letitia’s.
‘Lettie must be saved,’ she said, looking at me, ‘and I believe I know how to do it.’
‘You spoke of three claimants,’ I interrupted; ‘who is the third?’
‘Oh, he scarcely counts, unless indeed he carries off the prize. He is William Tyndall, Mr Bovey’s servant and retainer.’
‘And when, may I ask, is this momentous competition to take place?’ I continued.
‘Tomorrow morning at half-past nine, at Mr Bovey’s house. Will you come with us tomorrow, Dr Lonsdale, and be present at the weighing?’
‘I certainly will,’ I answered, ‘it will be a novel experience.’
‘Very well; can you be at this house a little before half-past eight, and we will drive straight to Kew?’
I promised to do so, and soon after took my leave. The next day I was at Miss Cusack’s house in good time. I found waiting for me Miss Cusack herself, Miss Ransom, and Edgar Wimburne.
A moment or two later we all found ourselves seated in a large landau, and in less than an hour had reached our destination. We drew up at a small dilapidated-looking house, standing in a row of prim suburban villas, and found that Mr Graham, the lawyer, and the executors had already arrived.
The room into which we had been ushered was fitted up as a sort of study. The furniture was very poor and scanty, the carpet was old, and the only ornaments on the walls were a few tattered prints yellow with age.
As soon as ever we came in, Mr Southby, the lawyer, came forward and spoke.
‘We are met here today,’ he said, ‘as you are all of course, aware, to carry out the clause of Mr Bovey’s last will and testament. What reasons prompted him to make these extraordinary conditions we do not know; we only know that we are bound to carry them out. In a safe in his bedroom there is, according to his own statement, a large sum of money in gold, which is to be the property of the one of these three gentlemen whose weight shall nearest approach to the weight of the gold. Messrs Hutchinson and Co have been kind enough to supply one of their latest weighing machines, which has been carefully checked, and now if you three gentlemen will kindly
