“Do you mean,” said Mr. Apjohn, turning upon him with all the severity of which he was capable, “do you mean to say that during all this time you have not known that the will was there?” The wretched man opened his mouth and essayed to speak, but not a word came. “Do you mean to tell us that when you refused us just now permission to search this room, though you were willing enough that we should search elsewhere, you were not acquainted with the hiding-place? When I asked you in my office the other day whether you knew where the will was hidden, and you wouldn’t answer me for very fear, though you were glib enough in swearing that you had not hidden it yourself, then you knew nothing about the book and its enclosure? When you told Mr. Griffith down at Coed that you had something to divulge, were you not then almost driven to tell the truth by your dastardly cowardice as to this threatened trial? And did you not fail again because you were afraid? You mean poltroon! Will you dare to say before us, now, that when we entered the room this morning you did not know what the book contained?” Cousin Henry once more opened his mouth, but no word came. “Answer me, sir, if you wish to escape any part of the punishment which you have deserved.”
“You should not ask him to criminate himself,” said Mr. Brodrick.
“No!” shrieked Cousin Henry; “no! he shouldn’t ask a fellow to tell against himself. It isn’t fair; is it, Uncle Brodrick?”
“If I hadn’t made you tell against yourself one way or another,” said Mr. Apjohn, “the will would have been there still, and we should all have been in the dark. There are occasions in which the truth must be screwed out of a man. We have screwed it out of you, you miserable creature! Brodrick, let us look at the paper. I suppose it is all right.” He was so elated by the ecstasy of his success that he hardly knew how to contain himself. There was no prospect to him of any profit in all this. It might, indeed, well be that all the expenses incurred, including the handsome honorarium which would still have to be paid to Mr. Cheekey, must come out of his own pocket. But the glory of the thing was too great to admit of any considerations such as those. For the last month his mind had been exercised with the question of this will, whether there was such a will or not, and, if so, where was its hiding-place? Now he had brought his month’s labour, his month’s speculation, and his month’s anxiety to a supreme success. In his present frame of mind it was nothing to him who might pay the bill. “As far as I can see,” said Mr. Brodrick, “it is altogether in order.”
“Let us look at it.” Then Mr. Apjohn, stretching out his hand, took the document, and, seating himself in Cousin Henry’s own chair at the breakfast-table, read it through carefully from beginning to end. It was wonderful—the exactness with which the old Squire had copied, not only every word, but every stop and every want of a stop in the preceding will. “It is my own work, every morsel of it,” said Mr. Apjohn, with thorough satisfaction. “Why on earth did he not burn the intermediate one which he made in this rascal’s favour,”—then he indicated the rascal by a motion of his head—“and make it all straight in that way?”
“There are men who think that a will once made should never be destroyed,” suggested Mr. Brodrick.
“I suppose it was something of that kind. He was a fine old fellow, but as obstinate as a mule. Well, what are we to do now?”
“My nephew will have to consult his lawyer whether he will wish to dispute this document or not.”
“I do not want to dispute anything,” said Cousin Henry, whining.
“Of course he will be allowed time to think of it,” said Mr. Apjohn. “He is in possession now, and will have plenty of time. He will have to answer some rather difficult questions from Mr. Cheekey on Friday.”
“Oh, no!” shouted the victim.
“I am afraid it must be ‘oh, yes,’ Mr. Jones! How are you to get out of it; eh? You are bound over to prosecute Mr. Evans, of the Herald, for defamation of character. Of course it will come out at the trial that we have found this document. Indeed, I shall be at no trouble to conceal that fact—nor, I suppose, will be Mr. Brodrick. Why should we?”
“I thought you were acting as my lawyer.”
“So I was—and so I am—and so I will. While you were supposed to be an honest man—or, rather, while it was possible that it might be so supposed—I told you what, as an honest man, you were bound to do. The Carmarthen Herald knew that you were not honest—and said so. If you are prepared to go into the court and swear that you knew nothing of the existence of this document, that you were not aware that it was concealed in that book, that you did nothing to prevent us from looking for it this morning, I will carry on the case for you. If I am called into the witness-box against you, of course I must give my evidence for what it is worth;—and Mr. Brodrick must do the same.”
“But it won’t go on?” he asked.
“Not if you are prepared to admit that there was no libel in all that the newspaper said. If you agree that it was all true, then you will have to pay the costs on both sides, and the indictment can be quashed. It will be a serious admission to make, but perhaps that won’t signify, seeing what your position as to character will be.”
“I think you are almost too hard upon him,” said Mr. Brodrick.
“Am
