Cousin Henry’s breakfast was frugal. All his meals had been frugal since he had become owner of Llanfeare. It was not that he did not like nice eating as well as another, but that he was too much afraid of his own servants to make known his own tastes. And then the general discomforts of his position had been too great to admit of relief from delicate dishes. There was the teapot on the table, and the solitary cup, and the bread and butter, and the nearly naked bone of a cold joint of mutton. And the things were not set after the fashion of a well-to-do gentleman’s table, but were put on as they might be in a third-rate London lodging, with a tumbled tablecloth, and dishes, plates, and cups all unlike each other.
“Mr. Jones,” said the attorney from Carmarthen, “this is your uncle, Mr. Brodrick, from Hereford.” Then the two men who were so nearly connected, but had never known each other, shook hands. “Of course, this matter,” continued Mr. Apjohn, “is of great moment, and Mr. Brodrick has come over to look after his daughter’s interests.”
“I am very glad to see my uncle,” said Cousin Henry, turning his eye involuntarily towards the shelf on which the volume of sermons was resting. “I am afraid I can’t offer you much in the way of breakfast.”
“We breakfasted before we left Carmarthen,” said Mr. Apjohn. “If you do not mind going on, we will talk to you whilst you are eating.” Cousin Henry said that he did not mind going on, but found it impossible to eat a morsel. That which he did, and that which he endured during that interview, he had to do and had to endure fasting. “I had better tell you at once,” continued Mr. Apjohn, “what we want to do now.”
“What is it you want to do now? I suppose I have got to go into the assizes all the same on Friday?”
“That depends. It is just possible that it should turn out to be unnecessary.”
As he said this, he looked into Cousin Henry’s face, and thought that he discerned something of satisfaction. When he made the suggestion, he understood well how great was the temptation offered in the prospect of not having to encounter Mr. Cheekey.
“Both Mr. Brodrick and I think it probable that your uncle’s last will may yet be concealed somewhere in the house.” Cousin Henry’s eye, as this was said, again glanced up at the fatal shelf.
“When Mr. Apjohn says that in my name,” said Mr. Brodrick, opening his mouth for the first time, “you must understand that I personally know nothing of the circumstances. I am guided in my opinion only by what he tells me.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Apjohn. “As the father of the young lady who would be the heiress of Llanfeare if you were not the heir, I have of course told him everything—even down to the most secret surmises of my mind.”
“All right,” said Cousin Henry.
“My position,” continued Mr. Apjohn, “is painful and very peculiar; but I find myself specially bound to act as the lawyer of the deceased, and to carry out whatever was in truth his last will and testament.”
“I thought that was proved at Carmarthen,” said Cousin Henry.
“No doubt. A will was proved—a will that was very genuine if no subsequent will be found. But, as you have been told repeatedly, the proving of that will amounts to nothing if a subsequent one be forthcoming. The great question is this; Does a subsequent will exist?”
“How am I to know anything about it?”
“Nobody says you do.”
“I suppose you wouldn’t come here and bring my uncle Brodrick down on me—giving me no notice, but coming into my house just when I am at breakfast, without saying a word to anyone—unless you thought so. I don’t see what right you have to be here at all!”
He was trying to pluck up his spirit in order that he might get rid of them. Why, oh! why had he not destroyed that document when, on the previous night, it had been brought out from its hiding-place, purposely in order that it might be burned?
“It is common, Mr. Jones, for one gentleman to call upon another when there is business to be done,” said Mr. Apjohn.
“But not common to come to a gentleman’s house and accuse him of making away with a will.”
“Nobody has done that,” said Mr. Brodrick.
“It is very like it.”
“Will you allow us to search again? Two of my clerks will be here just now, and will go through the house with us, if you will permit it.”
Cousin Henry sat staring at them. Not long ago he had himself asked one of Mr. Apjohn’s clerks why they did not search again. But then the framing of his thoughts had been different. At that moment he had been desirous of surrendering Llanfeare altogether, so that he might also get rid of Mr. Cheekey. Now he had reached a bolder purpose. Now he was resolved to destroy the will, enjoy the property, and face the barrister. An idea came across his mind that they would hardly insist upon searching instantly if he refused. A petition to that effect had already been made, and a petition implies the power of refusal on the part of him petitioned.
“Where do you want to look?” he asked.
Upon this Mr. Brodrick allowed his eyes to wander round the room. And Cousin Henry’s eyes followed those of his uncle, which seemed to him to settle themselves exactly upon the one shelf.
“To search the house generally; your uncle’s bedroom, for instance,” said Mr. Apjohn.
“Oh, yes; you can go there.” This he said with an ill-formed, crude idea which
