“Deary me, M.; don’t think of that now,” said the wife.
“What’s the use?” said Snengkeld. “Care killed a cat.”
“And perhaps you may,” said John Kenneby, trying to comfort him; “who knows?”
“It’s all in the hands of Providence,” said Kantwise, “and we should look to him.”
“And how does it taste?” asked Moulder, shaking the gloomy thoughts from his mind.
“Uncommon,” said Snengkeld, with his mouth quite full. “I never eat such a turkey in all my life.”
“Like melted diamonds,” said Mrs. Moulder, who was not without a touch of poetry.
“Ah, there’s nothing like hanging of ’em long enough, and watching of ’em well. It’s that vinegar as done it;” and then they went seriously to work, and there was nothing more said of any importance until the eating was nearly over.
And now Mrs. M. had taken away the cloth, and they were sitting cozily over their port wine. The very apple of the eye of the evening had not arrived even yet. That would not come till the pipes were brought out, and the brandy was put on the table, and the whisky was there that made the people’s hair stand on end. It was then that the floodgates of convivial eloquence would be unloosed. In the meantime it was necessary to sacrifice something to gentility, and therefore they sat over their port wine.
“Did you bring that letter with you, John?” said his sister. John replied that he had done so, and that he had also received another letter that morning from another party on the same subject.
“Do show it to Moulder, and ask him,” said Mrs. M.
“I’ve got ’em both on purpose,” said John; and then he brought forth two letters, and handed one of them to his brother-in-law. It contained a request, very civilly worded, from Messrs. Round and Crook, begging him to call at their office in Bedford Row on the earliest possible day, in order that they might have some conversation with him regarding the will of the late Sir Joseph Mason, who died in 18—.
“Why, this is law business,” said Moulder, who liked no business of that description. “Don’t you go near them, John, if you ain’t obliged.”
And then Kenneby gave his explanation on the matter, telling how in former years—many years ago, he had been a witness in a lawsuit. And then as he told it he sighed, remembering Miriam Usbech, for whose sake he had remained unmarried even to this day. And he went on to narrate how he had been bullied in the court, though he had valiantly striven to tell the truth with exactness; and as he spoke, an opinion of his became manifest that old Usbech had not signed the document in his presence. “The girl signed it certainly,” said he, “for I handed her the pen. I recollect it, as though it were yesterday.”
“They are the very people we were talking of at Leeds,” said Moulder, turning to Kantwise. “Mason and Martock; don’t you remember how you went out to Groby Park to sell some of them iron gimcracks? That was old Mason’s son. They are the same people.”
“Ah, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Kantwise, who was listening all the while. He never allowed intelligence of this kind to pass by him idly.
“And who’s the other letter from?” asked Moulder. “But, dash my wigs, it’s past six o’clock. Come, old girl, why don’t you give us the tobacco and stuff?”
“It ain’t far to fetch,” said Mrs. Moulder. And then she put the tobacco and “stuff” upon the table.
“The other letter is from an enemy of mine,” said John Kenneby, speaking very solemnly; “an enemy of mine, named Dockwrath, who lives at Hamworth. He’s an attorney too.”
“Dockwrath!” said Moulder.
Mr. Kantwise said nothing, but he looked round over his shoulder at Kenneby, and then shut his eyes.
“That was the name of the man whom we left in the commercial room at the Bull,” said Snengkeld.
“He went out to Mason’s at Groby Park that same day,” said Moulder.
“Then it’s the same man,” said Kenneby; and there was as much solemnity in the tone of his voice as though the unravelment of all the mysteries of the iron mask was now about to take place. Mr. Kantwise still said nothing, but he also perceived that it was the same man.
“Let me tell you, John Kenneby,” said Moulder, with the air of one who understood well the subject that he was discussing, “if they two be the same man, then the man who wrote that letter to you is as big a blackguard as there is from this to hisself.” And Mr. Moulder in the excitement of the moment puffed hard at his pipe, took a long pull at his drink, and dragged open his waistcoat. “I don’t know whether Kantwise has anything to say upon that subject,” added Moulder.
“Not a word at present,” said Kantwise. Mr. Kantwise was a very careful man, and usually calculated with accuracy the value which he might extract from any circumstances with reference to his own main chance. Mr. Dockwrath had not as yet paid him for the set of metallic furniture, and therefore he also might well have joined in that sweeping accusation; but it might be that by a judicious use of what he now heard he might obtain the payment of that little bill—and perhaps other collateral advantages.
And then the letter from Dockwrath to Kenneby was brought forth and read. “My dear John,” it began—for the two had known each other when they were lads together—and it went on to request Kenneby’s attendance at Hamworth for the short space of a few hours—“I want to have a little conversation with you
