Cousin Henry

committed a felony will hardly confess the deed in a court of law. Something of all this would, thought Mr. Apjohn, occur to Cousin Henry himself, and by this very addition to his fears he might be driven to destroy the will. The great object now should be to preserve a document which had lived as it were a charmed life through so many dangers. If anything were to be done with this object⁠—anything new⁠—it must be done at once. Even now, while he was thinking of it, Cousin Henry was being taken slowly home in Mr. Powell’s fly, and might do the deed as soon as he found himself alone in the book-room. Mr. Apjohn was almost sure that the will was concealed somewhere in the book-room. That long-continued sojourn in the chamber, of which the whole country had heard so much, told him that it was so. He was there always, watching the hiding-place. Would it be well that searchers should again be sent out, and that they should be instructed never to leave that room till after Cousin Henry’s examination should be over? If so, it would be right that a man should be sent off instantly on horseback, so as to prevent immediate destruction. But then he had no power to take such a step in reference to another man’s house. It was a question whether any magistrate would give him such a warrant, seeing that search had already been made, and that, on the failure of such search, that Squire’s will had already been proved. A man’s house is his castle, let the suspicion against him be what it may, unless there be evidence to support it. Were he to apply to a magistrate, he could only say that the man’s own manner and mode of speech had been evidence of his guilt. And yet how much was there hanging, perhaps, on the decision of the moment! Whether the property should go to the hands of her who was entitled to enjoy it, or remain in the possession of a thief such as this, might so probably depend on the action which should be taken, now, at this very instant!

Mr. Ricketts, his confidential clerk, was the only person with whom he had fully discussed all the details of the case⁠—the only person to whom he had expressed his own thoughts as they had occurred to him. He had said a word to the clerk in triumph as Cousin Henry left him, but a few minutes afterwards recalled him with an altered tone. “Ricketts,” he said, “the man has got that will with him in the book-room at Llanfeare.”

“Or in his pocket, sir,” suggested Ricketts.

“I don’t think it. Wherever it be at this moment, he has not placed it there himself. The Squire put it somewhere, and he has found it.”

“The Squire was very weak when he made that will, sir,” said the clerk. “Just at that time he was only coming down to the dining-room, when the sun shone in just for an hour or two in the day. If he put the will anywhere, it would probably be in his bedroom.”

“The man occupies another chamber?” asked the attorney.

“Yes, sir; the same room he had before his uncle died.”

“It’s in the book-room,” repeated Mr. Apjohn.

“Then he must have put it there.”

“But he didn’t. From his manner, and from a word or two that he spoke, I feel sure that the paper has been placed where it is by other hands.”

“The old man never went into the book-room. I heard every detail of his latter life from Mrs. Griffith when the search was going on. He hadn’t been there for more than a month. If he wanted anything out of the book-room, after the young lady went away, he sent Mrs. Griffith for it.”

“What did he send for?” asked Mr. Apjohn.

“He used to read a little sometimes,” said the clerk.

“Sermons?” suggested Mr. Apjohn. “For many years past he has read sermons to himself whenever he has failed in going to church. I have seen the volumes there on the table in the parlour when I have been with him. Did they search the books?”

“Had every volume off the shelves, sir.”

“And opened every one of them?”

“That I can’t tell. I wasn’t there.”

“Every volume should have been shaken,” said Mr. Apjohn.

“It’s not too late yet, sir,” said the clerk.

“But how are we to get in and do it? I have no right to go into his house, or any man’s, to search it.”

“He wouldn’t dare to hinder you, sir.”

Then there was a pause before anything further was said.

“The step is such a strong one to take,” said the lawyer, “when one is guided only by one’s own inner conviction. I have no tittle of evidence in my favour to prove anything beyond the fact that the old Squire in the latter days of his life did make a will which has not been found. For that we have searched, and, not finding it, have been forced to admit to probate the last will which we ourselves made. Since that nothing has come to my knowledge. Guided partly by the man’s ways while he has been at Llanfeare, and partly by his own manner and hesitation, I have come to a conclusion in my own mind; but it is one which I would hardly dare to propose to a magistrate as a ground for action.”

“But if he consented, sir?”

“Still, I should be hardly able to justify myself for such intrusion if nothing were found. We have no right to crush the poor creature because he is so easily crushable. I feel already pricks of conscience because I am bringing down Jack Cheekey upon him. If it all be as I have suggested⁠—that the will is hidden, let us say in some volume of sermons there⁠—what probability is there that he will destroy it now?”

“He would before the trial, I think.”

“But not at once? I think not. He will not