fail to understand the evidence of those sketches? What if he should refuse to believe your accusation of his nephew?”
“I will show him my father’s letter.”
“You forget that your father’s letter accuses Robert Lance, and not Launcelot Darrell.”
“But the sketches are signed ‘Robert Lance.’”
“And Mr. Darrell may deny his identity with the man who signed himself by that name. You cannot ask Maurice de Crespigny to believe in his nephew’s guilt on the testimony of a pencil drawing which that nephew may boldly repudiate. No, Eleanor, the work of to-day is only one step upon the road we have to tread. We must be patient, and wait for more conclusive proof than that which we hold in these two sketches.”
Eleanor sighed wearily.
“And in the meantime the 15th of March may come, or Mr. de Crespigny may die,” she said. “Oh, let me go to him at once; let me tell him who I am, and show him my father’s letter; let me tell him the cruel story of his old friend’s death! He knows nothing but that which he learned from a brief notice in a newspaper. He cannot refuse to believe me.”
Richard Thornton shook his head.
“You have asked me to help you, Eleanor,” he said, gravely; “if I am to do so, you must have some faith in my counsel. Wait until we have fuller power to prove our case, before you reveal yourself to Mr. de Crespigny.”
Mrs. Monckton could not very well refuse to submit herself to the scene-painter’s guidance. He had already most decisively demonstrated the superiority of his deliberate policy, as compared with the impulsive and unconsidered course of action recklessly followed by a headstrong girl.
“I must obey you, Dick,” Eleanor said, “because you are so good to me, and have done so much to prove that you are a great deal wiser than I am. But if Mr. de Crespigny should die while we are waiting for further proof, I—”
“You’ll blame me for his death, I suppose, Mrs. Monckton,” interrupted Richard, with a quiet smile, “after the manner of your sex?”
Eleanor had no little difficulty in obeying her counsellor, for when Gilbert Monckton met his wife at dinner, he told her that he had been at Woodlands that morning, and that her friend Maurice de Crespigny was daily growing weaker, and was not expected to live through the early spring months.
“The old man is fading slowly away,” the lawyer said. “His quiet and temperate habits have enabled him to hold out much longer than the doctors expected. It is like the gradual going out of a candle, they say. The flame sinks little by little in the socket. You must go and see the poor old man, Eleanor, before he dies.”
“Before he dies!” repeated Mrs. Monckton, “before he dies! Do you think he will die very soon, then, or suddenly?”
“Yes, I think he may go off suddenly at last. The medical men say as much, I understand.”
Eleanor looked at Richard Thornton.
“I must see him, and must see him before he dies,” she said. “Is his mind unimpaired, Gilbert? Is his intellect still as clear as it was a week ago?”
“Yes,” answered Mr. Monckton, “I have every reason to believe so ; for while I was talking to the two ladies in the breakfast-parlour, Henry Lawford, the Windsor attorney, came in, and asked me to go up to Mr. de Crespigny’s room. What do you think I was wanted for, Eleanor?”
“I have no idea.”
“I was wanted to act as witness to the old man’s will, in conjunction with Lawford’s clerk. I need scarcely tell you I was not a little astonished to find that Maurice de Crespigny had only now made up his mind as to the disposal of his money. I suppose he has made half a dozen wills, and destroyed one after another according to his humour. I only hope the maiden sisters may get a decent reward for their long years of patience and expectation.”
Eleanor’s trembling fingers trifled nervously with the ornaments at her watch chain. It was with difficulty that she could control her agitation.
“But to whom is the fortune left?” she asked, breathlessly. “Did you hear that, Gilbert?”
“No, my dear, it isn’t usual to make the witness to a will acquainted with the body of the deed. I saw poor Maurice de Crespigny execute his feeble autograph, and I put my own muscular-looking signature in the place indicated to me, and I asked no questions. It was enough for me to know that I had no interest in the document.”
“But did Mr. de Crespigny say nothing—nothing that could lead you to guess who—”
“Mr. de Crespigny said nothing whatever calculated to throw any light upon his intentions. He seemed relieved by the idea that his will was made and the business settled. Lawford wanted to carry off the document, but the old man insisted on keeping it in his possession. He wished to look over it, he said. He wanted to see if his intentions had been fully carried out, in the spirit as well as in the letter. He put the parchment under his pillow, and then laid down with an air of satisfaction. I dare say he has gone through the same little comedy again and again before to-day.”
“Perhaps he will destroy this will?” Eleanor said, thoughtfully.
There was a double danger of Launcelot Darrell’s getting the fortune. He would get it if it was bequeathed to him. He would take it as heir-at-law if his great-uncle died without a will.
“Yes,” Mr. Monckton answered, indifferently, “the old man may change his mind again, if he lives long enough to repent of this new will. But I doubt his surviving so long as to do that.”
“And have you no idea, Gilbert,—have you no idea as to whom the fortune is left?”
Mr. Monckton smiled.
“This is a question that concerns you, Laura,” he said, “a great deal more nearly than it does us.”
“What question?” asked Miss Mason, looking up from an elaborate piece of embroidery which she had been showing to Signora Picirillo.
“We are talking of Mr. de Crespigny’s fortune,