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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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THE Derby was being run and fortunes lay in the balance. But although Mortlake Fry was a confirmed gambler, he merely noted the time subconsciously. A more thrilling race was being run in the big family town-house—a race between life and death. If his cousin, Monkey Fry, died a minor or intestate, Mortlake would inherit the accumulated reserves of the fortune of Grandfather Fry, the millionaire shipowner. To-morrow Monkey would be twenty-one... and at that minute he lay in an upper bedroom, fighting for every breath, and almost at his last gasp.
The marvel was that he had reached his present age. A sickly, deformed infant, he had nearly died half a score of times; and when he reached adolescence he further ruined his chance of maturity by burning the candle at both ends. On his twentieth birthday, however—inspired not by the wish to live but by a secret definite purpose—he turned over a new leaf, cutting out nightlife and going on the water-wagon. Mortlake saw his hopes of inheritance dwindle daily as Monkey slowly drew nearer to his inheritance. Almost at the end his gambler's luck gave a sudden twist, when Monkey was smitten by a smart attack of influenza. To-day would probably settle the issue.
Unable to keep still, Mortlake paced the vast library. He was in the early thirties, tall and good-looking; but his appearance was just a shade too polished, his manners too suave. He was popular with women, but men would not accept him as a friend.
He had never missed a Derby before. For a second he had a vivid picture of the familiar course, the cluster of horses round Tottenham Corner and the swift thunder down the straight. But, almost directly, his thoughts shifted back to Monkey, sinking into coma, in the big bed upstairs.
He looked up at the entrance of his wife. She was a tall, striking-looking woman with an ivory, mask-like face, Chinese eyes and a long mop of crinkled black hair. Her name, 'Flor,' had been casually chosen from the lid of a cigar-box.
'What's won?' she asked.
'It'll be on the wireless,' replied her husband. They could have got the news by merely turning a screw, but although both had telegraphed their bets, the Derby faded into insignificance before the main crisis.
'I've just met Nurse Hopkins,' said Flor. 'She says there's no doubt he's sinking fast.'
'Old stuff!' sneered Mortlake. 'They've been saying that as long as I can remember. The blighter, won't die until he's signed his will and cut me out.'
'Hates you?' Flor smiled faintly. 'How strange.'
'Hates me like poison. And not so strange.' Mortlake's perfect teeth flashed under the black shading of his small moustache as he remembered the many times he—a handsome, strapping schoolboy—had tormented the puny, misshapen child.
His wife, watching him with inscrutable, Chinese eyes, easily followed the flow of his thoughts.
'You're losing your nerve,' she said. 'Suppose we call in the poor relation and get her to compound.'
As she anticipated, the remark stung Mortlake to anger.
'Compound?' he snarled. 'I'd rather lose out altogether than share with that girl. And you know it.'
Flor knew. There was no real love between the pair, but they were well matched and held together by mutual attraction.
The butler, passing by the open door, saw them linked together, and his clean-shaven lip curled in scorn.
'What's that pair of crooks up to now?' he wondered. Like the rest of the staff, he had no affection for Monkey. But where the young master had chastised him with whips, he expected Mortlake to use scorpions. All his hopes of the future were centred on the poor relation—Nan Fry.
NAN was upstairs in her large, luxurious bedroom, where she passed most of her time. She had felt confused and strange ever since she had arrived at the house, a week ago, at the lawyer's bidding. Moreover, she disliked meeting Flor and Mortlake.
It was not only the fact that the beautifully-dressed woman of the world made her self-conscious of her inferiority, which caused her to shrink into her hiding-place, but she was instinctively repelled by the attitude of the couple. They reminded her of vultures waiting to pounce down on the corpse. Although she was guiltless of wire-pulling, they made her feel ashamed of her own position as second claimant. She had sufficient honesty to realise the position, for she was finding life almost impossibly hard. When the lawyer, Mr. Willis, told her the news, it had the force of a blow.
'Oh, I do wish you hadn't told me,' she cried, 'I don't want to look forward to anyone's death. But I won't think of it. I won't!'
The lawyer smiled in encouragement, for this girl appealed to him, for her grey eyes held courage and self-reliance.
'You mustn't feel like that,' he said. 'Your poor cousin is doomed. He has only kept himself alive by his urgent wish that you should have half his property.'
'But he doesn't know me,' protested Nan.
The lawyer stroked Its lip, for he knew that Nan had not really entered into the picture. He remembered the malicious grin on Monkey's face when he told his wishes to the lawyer.
'Bequeath half to the poor relation, and spread the other half among charities,' he said. 'The noble Mortlake will so enjoy seeing his money go to blind babies and old horses.'
Ever since Nan had done her utmost not to think of what she stood to gain, but she could not help wondering what the future might hold for her father, Captain Fry.
He was a charming gentleman and a gallant officer, but his luck had been bad, so that at the age of fifty-seven he was unable to find employment and was dependent on Nan, who worked in a large store. Her constant nightmare was the real peril of being dismissed, as, owing to the depression, there was continuous reduction of staff. Captain Fry, as a man of the world, could appreciate Monkey's meteoric career in vice at its true value, so he viewed the situation without Nan's sentiment.
'If the poor chap had his health we'd wish him a long life,' he said. 'But if he's got to pass out, pray he may live to make his will. It will be our salvation.'
Nan could tell by the break in his voice that the glory of new life was already shining on an horizon which, hitherto, had held no dawn. Her heart swelled as she thought of his pluck and cheerful patience in an intolerable position of dependence and that painful poverty which exacts every kind of personal economy.
She looked round her enormous room, cool from shaded balconies and fragrant with choice flowers, and when she thought of her father, stewing in his tiny bedroom in an apartment-house which smelt of gas-stove and cabbage, she felt hot and angry at the contrast.
Fortunately, she had never realised the amount of the fortune at stake. Unlike Mortlake, who spent his time in problematic estimates, she only thought of a few vague salient points. Her father could afford his subscription at his old club, and she would leave the store. She had a vision of a sunny garden where her father pottered happily about in an old suit, budding roses.
But to-day these things were mirages on the desert sand. The morning's bulletin about Monkey was most depressing. Nurse Hopkins did not mince her words when she met Nan in the corridor.
'He's only hanging on by sheer willpower. If he was one of my own I'd be glad when it was over. It's suicide for him to see that lawyer to-day.'
Nurse Hopkins had no knowledge of the fact that her patient came of age on the morrow or of the important issues which hung on a few strokes of the pen.
As Nan looked at her soft brown eyes for one moment she was tempted to tell her all and to beg her to keep her cousin keyed up for the final effort. But distaste of trying on dead men's shoes before they were discarded had kept her silent. The telephone bell hummed with its muffled note. As she had feared, Captain Fry was at the other end of the wire.
'Well, darlingmdash;' His voice was intense with a hope which was almost painful. 'Is he holding his own?'
'Yes, Daddy.'
'Thank Heaven. I always expect to hear he's passed out in the night. Only one day more.'
'Yes. But, darling, he's much weaker. Don't—don't count on anything.'
'Of course not.' Captain's Fry's voice rang out like a trumpet. 'We shall be no worse off than before. And we've had all the excitement of helping to lift ourselves out of the rut for a bit.'
'Yes. I must ring off. Somebody's knocking. Daddy, is it very hot in the flat?'
'A bit sultry, but I like it. A good preparation for my hereafter. Goodbye, darling. Good luck.'
Nan swallowed down the lump in her throat as she opened the door to a maid who bore a message. 'The nurse says the master would like to see you, please, miss.'
NAN had to screw up her courage for the ordeal as she walked down the broad corridor, scented with roses from the roof-garden at its far end.
She had only seen Monkey once, when her father had forcibly introduced her to her cousin in a restaurant. She remembered an undersized youth, in immaculate evening dress, with a tight, parchment-pale face and old, cynical eyes. He was in the company of some smart and sophisticated, women, and he made no secret of the fact that he was not interested in his young relative.
The bedroom, which had belonged to Grandfather Fry, was of vast proportions which dwarfed even the heavy furniture, all of which were museum-bits. Nan's eye was caught at once by a large oil-painting of Grandfather Fry hanging over a marble console-table on which stood an enormous cut-crystal bowl of great value. It was plain to see that Monkey had inherited his appearance from him, for even the flattery of the portrait painter depicted him as a dwarfish monkey-like man. Yet he dominated the scene by his expression, with its ruthless fixity of will.
'In the end you will all of you have to reckon with me,' it said.
Nan crossed to the great carved walnut bed, and with an effort looked down on Monkey. He was even more shrunken, and his simian face was grey, but she no longer felt the instinctive antipathy of her first meeting. A sudden rush of pity made her eyes fill with tears. Monkey looked faintly interested in her emotion.
'Nan?' he queried weakly.
'Yes.' She tried to smile. 'Silly name. Like a goat'
'No. Old Morty's the goat. Nan, I want you to have my money.'
'Oh—don't!'
'Yes... Yes. You. Not him.' His voice faded from weakness, and Nurse Hopkins touched Nan and nodded towards the door. Nan took Monkey's hand instinctively and spoke to him, as though he were one of her brothers—now boarded out in charity schools.
'Get well,' she said huskily.
When the door had closed behind her Monkey lay, nursing his strength for the lawyer's visit. For the first time in his life he was responsive to a rush of human sympathy which his instinct recognised as genuine. Women had looked at him with amusement, cupidity or contempt; but Nan's grey eyes held such kindness that even, the insult of her pity could not hurt him. He told himself that the poor relation seemed down on her luck. She knew what it was to be hungry; in that case they could shake hands, for, owing to a defective gland—or something equally amusing—he was practically starved to death.
He was a moralist's awful warning on the penalties of misapplied wealth; but his spirit was still strong as he nodded to the portrait of Grandfather Fry.
'You don't want that gambler, Mortlake, to get your tin, old-timer?' he thought. 'I know. Leave it to me.'
Punctually at four o'clock the lawyer entered the bedroom, accompanied by his clerk. He rather resembled a character from Dickens, being thin and dark, with a shrivelled, apple-red face above an old-fashioned stock. He had come to read to Monkey his completed will and testament.
As the heavy black curtains fell behind him Mortlake and Flor appeared in the corridor. It was here that the drama of the race between life and death was chiefly staged. Sooner or later everyone in the house came to the corridor.
The butler, as official courier for the domestic staff, frequently stole over the thick carpet, which muffled every footfall, to get the latest news from the nurses. Mortlake and Flor seldom left their station on a divan, which commanded a view of Monkey's bedroom door.
They talked together in whispers as they smoked cigarettes endlessly. The sight of them always repelled Nan, because of then suggestion of being on the spot to take instant possession. She was forced to be a spectator against her will, since the lawyer had told her to remain on the premises lest Monkey should ask for her. In order to get some fresh air she usually sat in the roof-garden at the end of the corridor.
Barely ten minutes after his arrival the lawyer came out of Monkey's bedroom, accompanied by his clerk. Both men looked ominously grave. From behind her screen of pink and crimson roses Nan saw Flor and Mortlake advance to meet the lawyer. But she would not join the group; although their interests were identical her pride refused to fight for scraps of news with the other vultures.
She had to come out of her refuge, however, when Mortlake softly called her name. She knew at once that things had come out against her.
'Mr. Wills has some very bad news for us, I am sorry to say.' Mortlake's voice was suavely regretful. 'He is afraid that poor Monkey is sinking.'
The lawyer nodded.
'I very much fear he has transacted his last bit of business,' he said. 'Although it was so trifling, the effort was too much for him. He collapsed directly afterwards. The nurse is now telephoning the doctor.'
IT was not until the blow had fallen that Nan realised how much she had been building subconsciously on the future. Now the door was slammed In her face. Steeling herself to endure Flo's smile, she waited in the corridor for the doctor's arrival. He came soon after the summons, and without speaking to anyone hurried into Monkey's room. It seemed a very long time before he came out again.
He was a big, important looking man, with a sphinx like face, which Nan scanned in vain for some gleam of hope.
'Well, doctor?' Mortlake spoke with exaggerated anxiety. 'How is he?'
'I can tell you nothing definite,' replied the doctor. 'I have Just given' him an injection. The danger is that his strength may give out before he can respond to It.'
'I see.' Mortlake glanced at Nan. 'Would he respond sufficiently to sign his name?'
'Surely you don't intend to worry the poor fellow with business?' protested the doctor.
'Of course not!' cried Nan indignantly. 'But can you tell me if there is any hope?'
'While there's life,' murmured the doctor tritely.
The doctor left a disturbed mental atmosphere in his wake; but Nurse Hopkins, who appeared at the door for a minute's interview, had no hope at all.
'He's letting himself go,' she whispered. 'He's lost the wish to live.'
Nan went back to her room with leaden feet. She could not endure the thought of her father's disappointment when he heard the news. But there was nothing to be done now but wait for the end.
Presently she began to dress for dinner. Although she longed to plead illness her pluck would not let her shirk the ordeal. She went to the dining-room feeling sorry for herself, sorry for her father, and, above all, sorry for poor Monkey. No one teemed to care about his death. To the lawyer he was a client—to the doctor and nurses 'the patient'—to Mortlake and Flor legitimate prey.
Unable to eat while at any moment he might be drifting out, she sat in a dejection which provoked Flor to a sudden attack.
'Is this a pose?' she asked. 'Or has hope deferred taken away your appetite?'
As Nan remained obstinately silent Flor laughed sarcastically.
'Don't be a humbug,' she said. 'The only difference between us is that we are honest.'
Nan looked at Flor's dinner-gown of palest pink angel-skin. 'No,' she dissented. 'The chief difference is that I need money more than you could dream of. But I'd rather die in the gutter than wish for someone to die.'
Pushing away her chair, she ran from the room, followed by the butler's sympathetic gaze.
But although she did not know it, even then the tide had begun to turn. By imperceptible degrees Monkey was passing from the coma of exhaustion to the fringe of sleep. Although Nurse Hopkins went off duty in the firm belief that his life would flicker out during the night, the nurse who relieved her took a more optimistic view.
Nurse Black was a buxom Scotch lassie, red and smiling as the dawn. When she opened the door of the bedroom later in the evening, Nan, who was pretending to read a magazine in the corridor, felt a sudden revival of confidence.
THE nurse whispered her bulletin to the handsome couple in impressive evening dress.
'His strength is being maintained. What he needs is a long sleep. Of course he's in a bad way, but I've pulled through patients who've been a lot worse than he is. I'm always lucky with my cases.'
Beaming on them, she shut the door.
Flor turned abruptly and went into her own room, followed by her husband. The curtains were drawn, but she stopped Mortlake when he went to switch on the light.
'No, don't. Mortlake, he's going to rally.'
'Well, it's not my fault.'
'Listen!' Her face glimmered whitely in the heavy-scented gloom. 'You've got to do something.'
He was caught by the meaning in her voice.
'Do you mean—?' he whispered.
'Yes.'
'You're mad. I'm not a bloke who bumps people off. Too squeamish.'
'Too cowardly.'
'Now, don't be a blooming fool. Do you want me to drop poison in his medicine or choke him, just to amuse the nurse? Besides, If I could—I draw the line at murder!'
'Then you're going to let a fortune slip through your fingers.' Flor's whisper was vicious as the hiss of a snake.
'Don't rub it In',' muttered Mortlake. 'Anyway, there's no chance of getting away with it. I'd only swing.'
With a sudden change of mood Flor laughed. 'No, I can't spare you, my brave, strong man. Besides, you'd only bungle it.'
'Go on, sneer. But I'm dead to shame. Besides, I don't believe in that Highland lassie and her white-heather luck, I tell you Monkey's all in. His life's hanging only on a slight thread.'
'And don't forget, a fortune is hanging on that same thread. We can risk nothing. I must think.'
She dropped into a chair and pressed her fingertips to her brow, while her husband, in a sort of hypnotised trance, watched the light glitter on her scarlet nails. The room—like the rest of the house—was so still that the ticking of a clock in the corridor could be heard faintly, like the beating of a dying mans heart.
The great mansion was situated in a quiet residential square, and the layer of tar on the road deadened the sounds of occasional traffic. There was only a discreet hum of engine and a muffled rattle whenever a car passed by. Presently Flor stared at her husband with eyes expressionless as black lacquer.
'Sleep,' she murmured. 'The nurse said he needs deep, refreshing sleep. Suppose he was suddenly aroused by some loud noise. The shock would prove fatal.'
Mortlake shook his head. 'My dear girl,' he said, 'this barracks of a place isn't your ancestral gingerbread flat. Grandfather Fry's bedroom is soundproof. He had it specially constructed with double walls and doors to shut him off completely from the rest of the house. The Last Trump wouldn't wake Monkey if Gabriel sounded It in the corridor.'
Suddenly mindful of the empty stage and the unfinished drama, Flor rose.
'Let's go outside and wait,' she said.
Nan was already seated in the corridor, an unopened magazine on her lap. There could be no question of going to bed in the present state of tension, she glanced at Flor and Mortlake, but as they ignored her completely she pretended to read, although conscious the while of their hostile atmosphere. In a hot, airless silence they awaited the last bulletin.
IT was nearly eleven when there was a stir behind the black velvet curtain, and Nurse Black appeared In the corridor. It was plain that she bore good news, for she was smiling.
'He's in a nice natural sleep,' she told them. 'His pulse is stronger. In fact, he's doing fine.'
'Oh, I'm glad,' cried Nan. 'Will he get really well?'
In spite of her optimism Nurse Black would not go too far.
'Well, we must take short views for the present. But I expect a real improvement to-morrow.'
'Oh, good!' remarked Mortlake, as he lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. He was doing his utmost to observe the decencies, but there was an ugly gleam in his eyes as he turned to Nan.
'You win,' he said, forcing a smile. 'Congratulations!'
Before she could protest, Nurse Black interposed, driving the three of them before her like a motherly hen.
'Now to bed, all of you, and get some sleep. Don't worry about the laddie any more.'
Nan was grateful to obey. Sensitive to the vibrations of the clash of human passions, she was appalled by her recent glimpse into the depths. While Mortlake's cupidity disgusted her, Flor's eyes filled her with actual fear.
'I believe she'd murder him,' she thought. 'But thank Heaven he's too well watched. She hasn't the chance.'
Her own conscience was clear. She knew that, had she the power over life, Monkey would live to reach the allotted span. But when she reached her room it mocked her no longer by its ironic luxury, but seemed a sanctuary. There was magic in the leaping reminder that one day it might actually be hers, and that the spectres of poverty and unemployment would be banished for ever.
She was about to ring up her father to cheer him with news of the latest development, but she laid down the instrument again.
'Better not raise false hopes. Too many bridges yet to cross. Monkey may not rally enough to sign.'
Although her lids were leaden, she could not get to sleep. Presently she became aware that she was nervous of some hidden peril. A submerged sense of caution kept her continually on the jump so that she started at the slightest sound.
'At this minute,' she thought, 'I am the most important person in this house. I'm the heir. If anything happened to me in the night Mortlake would come into the fortune.'
It was not a pleasant bedtime thought as she remembered the relentless blackness of Flor's Chinese eyes. Even while she told herself that she was the victim of fantastic suspicion, she crumpled at last under the strain, of the cumulative suspense of the day.
Slipping out of bed, she locked her door.
Her melodramatic action proved an almost instant cure for insomnia. Almost directly she dropped off to sleep, with no premonition of a swift and terrifying awakening.
Yet she need not have feared for her personal safety, for far more important issues were at stake.
When Flor and Mortlake reached their room Mortlake bit off a curse and then began to tear off his collar.
'Well, that's that.' He spoke with affected calm. 'Better get to bed.'
'Don't undress.' Flor's command was curt. 'We've got to work quickly.'
Her husband turned on her with sullen resentment, 'I thought I'd told you I'm not going to get into a jam. Hanging's a bad pain to the neck.'
'Don't worry, but do as I tell you. You've only got to order a drink. And that's no hardship to you.'
'Why?'
'Because you must keep that wretched butler away from the hall. Tell him to bring you a gin-and-it into the library, and when he's there, hold him. Talk about the race. Ask him what he backed. Discuss form. Anything.'
Once again Flor bent her husband to her wish. When Mortlake crossed the vast marble ball the butler appeared as usual, from some ambush. Like the family, he was constantly on the alert for fresh developments.
Mortlake obeyed his wife's instructions, although he found it a strain to talk easily to the man with whom he had never established cordial relations. His eyes strayed continuously to his watch, while his anxiety in; creased with the passage of each minute. He did not trust Flor, and feared she might drag him, after her, into the pit.
Presently, at a faint but welcome sound to the hall, he drained his glass and, without a parting word to the butler, hurried from the library.
Racing up the stairs, he burst into his bedroom, to find Flor lying on the bed, blowing rings up to the ceiling.
'Well?' he asked.
'Well,' she repeated.
'Nothing to tell, except that I wouldn't sell my chance of a fortune now for ten thousand pounds.'
Mortlake felt a flicker of sudden hope, but he knew that she was in her irritable mood when it was useless to question her. As he watched her, she raised her read, in a tense poise of listening, like a cobra about to strike. The next second the sound reached his own ears—a far-away roar, like a series of small explosions. Almost immediately it worked up to a crescendo of metallic din, shattering the stillness of the Square, as a fire engine—followed by a second and then a third—crashed past the houses with dynamic force and fury.
The night was oppressively hot, so the windows were open to Monkey's room, where he lay lingering reluctantly to the dim border-land between life and death. Recalled to reality too violently by the note, the shock gave him his welcome release. His heart gave one leap, like a wounded bird, and then ceased to beat.
THE din awoke Nan, who leaped from bed trembling from a premonition of disaster. She forgot that she had locked the door, and tugged at it to a panic, believing she was trapped to a fire. When she reached Monkey's room her first glance at the shrunken figure to the bed told her that her cousin was dead. Completely stunned by the tragedy, she scarcely heard Nurse Black's lament.
'First case I've lost this year. But it was just sheer bad luck. No one could anticipate a fire alarm.'
Yet someone had anticipated it.
When they were together to their room again, Mortlake—for the first time to his experience—saw his wife's calm shattered by triumph and excitement.
'I slipped out to the call-box when you were holding the butler,' she explained. 'I gave them a frantic message that the hall at Number Twenty Three was on fire and the staircase was a furnace. I screamed that there were children sleeping on the top floor and we feared they would be cut off. You see, it's not far, and as it was a case of life and death, I guessed they'd turn out to force and come hell-for-leather.'
Mortlake regarded her with admiration. 'You're a better man than me,' be said. While he would have regarded the administration of poison or any act of violence as positive murder, his twisted mentality accepted the indirect method of achieving. Monkey's death as legitimate.
'What does it feel like to bump off a man, Lady Macbeth?' he asked.
'I did not murder him,' was the reply. 'I merely hastened the end. The doctor told us only to expect a flicker.'
That flicker would have been enough to have beggared us,' Mortlake smiled cruelly. 'The only darned thing the blighter wanted was to see me kicked into the gutter. Well, he knew he was licked. He must have hated it like hell.'
He broke off, at a sudden thought.
'Flor—will they suspect anything?'
'They may,' shrugged Flor. 'But they can prove nothing.'
Flor's forecast was correct, for the butler had his private suspicion of foul play. Like the other servants he had slept little, for he guessed that Mortlake would sack the entire staff.
WORRIED about his future, he waited for an opportunity to speak to Nan as she came reluctantly downstairs to breakfast.
'Might I speak to you in confidence, miss?' he asked. Nan nodded assent. Her eyes were black-ringed and her face seemed to have shrunk during the night, like some fragile spring flower nipped by an east wind.
'Have you heard that the fire at Number Twenty-three was a false alarm?' he asked. 'An act of malice on the part of some person unknown. Came from a call-office, so cannot be traced. But I'm of opinion as I could give a name to the lady.'
He lowered his voice. 'Last night, just before it happened, young Mr. Fry called me into the library to fetch him a drink, although there was whisky there. He kept me talking, although he's never been affable before, and he didn't listen to what was said. All the time he was listening, and that set me listening too. I heard the front door open and shut in a cautious way. And there he was off like a shot.'
Nan's eyes flashed as she listened, but almost immediately the fire died from her face.
'Even if this is true,' she said, 'it would be impossible to prove anything. We cannot bring the young master back to life. Don't repeat this to anyone, for it might injure your future prospects.'
'Very good, miss. I only felt you ought to know.'
It was the last thing Nan wanted to know. She was feeling the aftermath of frustrated hope. Besides, she was gripped by the horror underlying the man's whisper. If his conjecture were correct, someone in the house was a murderer. It could only be those who benefited by Monkey's death.
She shrank from the prospect of meeting Mortlake and Flor. The knowledge that she and her father had been cheated out of their inheritance made it difficult to accept Mortlake's triumphant smile as he greeted her with exaggerated courtesy.
She noticed at once that Flor had made her gesture, for She had sat down to breakfast to order to sit at the head of the table. It was her house, and she let Nan know it as she posed as hostess to a poor relation. Presently she mentioned the funeral.
'We would like you and your father to attend. Flowers are ruinous just now. I hope you will choose something worthy of poor Monkey, and have it put down to the bill for expenses.'
'Thank you.' Nan spoke with difficulty. 'Daddy and I will provide our own flowers.'
'As you like.' Flor shrugged her shoulders as her face suddenly changed from boredom to interest.
'Here's Wills coming up the street. He's an early bird.'
'Good man,' said her husband. 'Now we can talk business.'
MORTLAKE'S teeth flashed in a radiant smile as he met the lawyer at the front door with outstretched hand. Mr. Wills, however, merely nodded, and asked if Miss Fry were down.
'Having breakfast,' replied Mortlake heartily, leading the way to the morning-room. The lawyer followed him, a curious, dry smile flickering around his mobile lips. He lingered on the threshold to order to remark Flor's air of possession and Nan's troubled face. He admired the courage which urged her to force a smile as he took her cold hand.
'I came early,' he told her, 'to bring you some good news and to congratulate you. Your cousin, my late client, made a will leaving half his fortune to you.'
His speech had the effect of a bursting bombshell. Nan's face flooded with colour as she stared at him with startled, incredulous eyes. Flor sprang to her feet and gripped her husband's arm.
'Is this a bad Joke?' asked Mortlake icily. 'Monkey died intestate.'
'On the contrary,' replied the lawyer, drawing a long envelope from his overcoat pocket, 'I brought this will—ready prepared—to his bedroom yesterday at four o'clock. He signed his name, and my clerk and Nurse Hopkins witnessed the signature. Of course, they were bound to secrecy.'
Mortlake broke into a scornful and derisive laugh.
'Why will you persist to pulling my leg?' he asked. 'That will is only waste-paper. Monkey was a minor when he signed.'
The lawyer shook his head. 'A common fallacy,' he said. 'But it is a fact of law, although not a matter of common knowledge, that a person actually comes of age the day before his twenty-first birthday*—I explained this to the poor fellow and made him smile, although he was all in. I really believe the knowledge that his wishes were going to be carried out drew all the sting from death. It was his victory.'
* This decision is a case of the year 1771. It and other authorities will be found collected to Halsbury's Digest of the Laws of England, Vol. 37, p. 454 par. 898. The relevant passage is: 'If a man was born on the 1st February, and lived to the 31st January, twenty-one years after, and on five o'clock on the morning of that day makes his will and dies by six at night, that Will is good.' The name of the case is Roe & Wrangham v. Henry, 3rd Wilson's Reports, p. 274.
Roy Glashan's Library
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