Cousin Henry

was generally called in the profession⁠—and perhaps sometimes outside it⁠—“Supercilious Jack,” from the manner he had of moving his eyebrows when he was desirous of intimidating a witness. He was a strong, young-looking, and generally good-humoured Irishman, who had a thousand good points. Under no circumstances would he bully a woman⁠—nor would he bully a man, unless, according to his own mode of looking at such cases, the man wanted bullying. But when that time did come⁠—and a reference to the Old Bailey and assize reports in general would show that it came very often⁠—Supercilious Jack would make his teeth felt worse than any terrier. He could pause in his cross-examination, look at a man, projecting his face forward by degrees as he did so, in a manner which would crush any false witness who was not armed with triple courage at his breast⁠—and, alas! not unfrequently a witness who was not false. For unfortunately, though Mr. Cheekey intended to confine the process to those who, as he said, wanted bullying, sometimes he made mistakes. He was possessed also of another precious gift⁠—which, if he had not invented, he had brought to perfection⁠—that of bullying the judge also. He had found that by doing so he could lower a judge in the estimation of the jury, and thus diminish the force of a damnatory charge. Mr. Cheekey’s services had been especially secured for this trial, and all the circumstances had been accurately explained to him. It was felt that a great day would have arrived in Carmarthen when Mr. Cheekey should stand up in the court to cross-examine Cousin Henry.

“Yes,” said Mr. Evans, chuckling, “I think that Mr. Cheekey will have something to say to it. What will be the result, Mr. Apjohn?” he asked abruptly.

“How am I to say? If he can only hold his own like a man, there will, of course, be a verdict of guilty.”

“But can he?” asked he of the newspaper.

“I hope he may with all my heart⁠—if he have done nothing that he ought not to have done. In this matter, Mr. Evans, I have altogether a divided sympathy. I dislike the man utterly. I don’t care who knows it. No one knows it better than he himself. The idea of his coming here over that young lady’s head was from the first abhorrent to me. When I saw him, and heard him, and found out what he was⁠—such a poor, cringing, cowardly wretch⁠—my feeling was of course exacerbated. It was terrible to me that the old squire, whom I had always respected, should have brought such a man among us. But that was the old squire’s doing. He certainly did bring him, and as certainly intended to make him his heir. If he did make him his heir, if that will which I read was in truth the last will, then I hope most sincerely that all that Mr. Cheekey may do may be of no avail against him. If that be the case, I shall be glad to have an opportunity of calling upon you in your new lodgings.”

“But if there was another will, Mr. Apjohn⁠—a later will?”

“Then of course, there is the doubt whether this man be aware of it.”

“But if he be aware of it?”

“Then I hope that Mr. Cheekey may tear him limb from limb.”

“But you feel sure that it is so?”

“Ah; I do not know about that. It is very hard to be sure of anything. When I see him I do feel almost sure that he is guilty; but when I think of it afterwards, I again have my doubts. It is not by men of such calibre that great crimes are committed. I can hardly fancy that he should have destroyed a will.”

“Or hidden it?”

“If it were hidden, he would live in agony lest it were discovered. I used to think so when I knew that he passed the whole day sitting in one room. Now he goes out for hours together. Two or three times he has been down with old Griffith at Coed, and twice young Cantor found him lying on the sea cliff. I doubt whether he would have gone so far afield if the will were hidden in the house.”

“Can he have it on his own person?”

“He is not brave enough for that. The presence of it there would reveal itself by the motion of his hands. His fingers would always be on the pocket that contained it. I do not know what to think. And it is because I am in doubt that I have brought him under Mr. Cheekey’s thumbscrew. It is a case in which I would, if possible, force a man to confess the truth even against himself. And for this reason I have urged him to prosecute you. But as an honest man myself, I am bound to hope that he may succeed if he be the rightful owner of Llanfeare.”

“No one believes it, Mr. Apjohn. Not one in all Carmarthen believes it.”

“I will not say what I believe myself. Indeed I do not know. But I do hope that by Mr. Cheekey’s aid or otherwise we may get at the truth.”

In his own peculiar circle, with Mr. Geary the attorney, with Mr. Jones the auctioneer, and Mr. Powell, the landlord of the Bush Hotel, Mr. Evans was much more triumphant. Among them, and indeed, with the gentlemen of Carmarthen generally, he was something of a hero. They did believe it probable that the interloper would be extruded from the property which did not belong to him, and that the doing of this would be due to Mr. Evans. “Apjohn pretends to think that it is very doubtful,” said he to his three friends.

“Apjohn isn’t doubtful at all,” said Mr. Geary, “but he is a little cautious as to expressing himself.”

“Apjohn has behaved very well,” remarked the innkeeper. “If it wasn’t for him we should never have got the rascal to come forward at all. He went