Then came some further conversation about Mr. Cheekey, which, however, did not take an official form. What questions Mr. Cheekey might ask would be between Mr. Cheekey and the other attorney, and formed no part of Mr. Apjohn’s direct business. He had intended to imbue his client with something of the horror with which his clerk had been before him in creating, believing that the cause of truth would be assisted by reducing the man to the lowest condition of mean terror. But this new story somewhat changed his purpose. If the man were innocent—if there were but some small probability of his innocence—was it not his duty to defend him as a client from ill-usage on the part of Cheekey? That Cheekey must have his way with him was a matter of course—that is, if Cousin Henry appeared at all; but a word or two of warning might be of service.
“You will be examined on the other side by Mr. Cheekey,” he said, intending to assume a pleasant voice. At the hearing of the awful name, sweat broke out on Cousin Henry’s brow. “You know what his line will be?”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“He will attempt to prove that another will was made.”
“I do not deny it. Haven’t I said that I think another will was made?”
“And that you are either aware of its existence—” here Mr. Apjohn paused, having resumed that stern tone of his voice which was so disagreeable to Cousin Henry’s ears—“or that you have destroyed it.”
“What right has he got to say that I have destroyed it? I have destroyed nothing.”
Mr. Apjohn marked the words well, and was again all but convinced that his client was not innocent. “He will endeavour to make a jury believe from words coming out of your own mouth, or possibly by your silence, that you have either destroyed the deed—or have concealed it.”
Cousin Henry thought a moment whether he had concealed the will or not. No! he had not put it within the book. The man who hides a thing is the man who conceals the thing—not a man who fails to tell that he has found it.
“Or—concealed it,” repeated Mr. Apjohn with that peculiar voice of his.
“I have not concealed it,” said the victim.
“Nor know where it lies hidden?” Ghastly pale he became—livid, almost blue by degrees. Though he was fully determined to give up the will, he could not yield to the pressure now put upon him. Nor could he withstand it. The question was as terrible to him as though he had entertained no idea of abandoning the property. To acknowledge that he knew all along where it was hidden would be to confess his guilt and to give himself up to the tormentors of the law.
“Nor know where it lies hidden?” repeated Mr. Apjohn, in a low voice. “Go out of the room, Ricketts,” he said. “Nor know where it lies hidden?” he asked a third time when the clerk had closed the door behind him.
“I know nothing about it,” gasped the poor man.
“You have nothing beyond that to say to me?”
“Nothing.”
“You would rather that it should be left to Mr. Cheekey? If there be anything further that you can say, I should be more tender with you than he.”
“Nothing.”
“And here, in this room, there is no public to gaze upon you.”
“Nothing,” he gasped again.
“Very well. So be it. Ricketts, see if the fly be there for Mr. Jones.” A few minutes afterwards his confidential clerk was alone with him in the room.
“I have learned so much, Ricketts,” said he. “The will is still in existence. I am sure of that. And he knows its whereabouts. We shall have Miss Brodrick there before Christmas yet.”
XIX
Mr. Apjohn Sends for Assistance
The last words in the last chapter were spoken by Mr. Apjohn to his confidential clerk in a tone of triumph. He had picked up something further, and, conscious that he had done so by his own ingenuity, was for a moment triumphant. But when he came to think over it all alone—and he spent many hours just at present in thinking of this matter—he was less inclined to be self-satisfied. He felt that a great responsibility rested with him, and that this weighed upon him peculiarly at the present moment. He was quite sure not only that a later will had been made, but that it was in existence. It was concealed somewhere, and Cousin Henry knew the secret of its hiding-place. It had existed, at any rate, that morning; but now came the terrible question whether the man, driven to his last gasp in his misery, would not destroy it. Not only had Mr. Apjohn discovered the secret, but he was well aware that Cousin Henry was conscious that he had done so, and yet not a word had been spoken between them which, should the will now be destroyed, could be taken as evidence that it had ever existed. Let the paper be once burnt, and Cousin Henry would be safe in possession of the property. Mr. Cheekey might torment his victim, but certainly would not extract from him a confession such as that. The hiding of the will, the very place in which it was hidden, might possibly be extracted. It was conceivable that ingenuity on one side and abject terror on the other might lead a poor wretch to betray the secret; but a man who has
