A Cousin's Conspiracy: or, A Boy's Struggle for an Inheritance

“I can’t recall. I am not sure that I heard it.”

“Was it Ernest?”

“I cannot speak with any certainty.”

“How old did the boy appear to be?”

“About sixteen.”

“That would have been the age of Dudley Ray’s son,” said Bolton to himself.

“I suppose you didn’t learn where the boy lived?”

“No.”

This was all the information Mr. Windham was able to impart, but Bolton felt that it was possibly of importance. It was the first clue he had been able to obtain.

That Dudley Ray’s son should be forced by dire necessity to sell newspapers was not improbable. Bolton therefore inserted the advertisement already mentioned.

A few days later he received two letters post-marked St. Louis.

He opened them with a thrill of excitement. He felt that he was on the verge of making an important discovery.

One letter was addressed in a schoolboy hand, and ran thus:

Dear Sir: I saw your advertisement in one of the morning papers. I hope it means me. My name is not Ernest, but it may have been changed by some people with whom I lived in Nebraska. I am sixteen years old, and I am obliged to earn my living selling papers. My father died when I was a baby, and my mother three years later. I am alone in the world, and am having a hard time. I suppose you wouldn’t advertise for me unless you had some good news for me. You may send your answer to this letter to the Southern Hotel. The clerk is a friend of mine, and he says he will save it for me.

Yours respectfully,Arthur Ray.

“That isn’t the boy,” said Bolton, laying down the letter in disappointment. “The name is different, and, besides, the writer says that his father died when he was a baby. Of course that settles the question. He is a different boy.”

He opened the second letter, hoping that it might be more satisfactory.

It was the letter of Tom Burns, setting forth his meeting Ernest at Oak Forks, and afterward at Oreville in California.

“Eureka!” exclaimed Bolton, his face beaming with exultation. “This is the boy and no mistake. I will at once answer this letter, and also write to Ernest Ray in California.”

This was the letter received by Burns:

Dear Sir: I am very much indebted to you for the information contained in your letter of two days since. I have reason to think that the boy you mention is the one of whom I am in search. If it proves to be so, I am free to tell you that he will be much benefited by your communication. There is a considerable estate, now wrongfully held by another, to which he is entitled. Should things turn out as I hope, I will see that you lose nothing by the service you have rendered him and myself. I will write to him by this mail. Should you change your address, please notify me.

Yours truly,Benjamin Bolton.

182 Nassau Street, New York.

The letter written to Ernest ran thus:

Ernest Ray, Oreville, California:

I have for some time been seeking to find you. In response to an advertisement inserted in a St. Louis daily paper, I learn that you are at present living in Oreville, California. This information was given me by one Thomas Burns, who is employed at the Planters’ Hotel. The name is, I hope, familiar to you. It is very desirable that I should have an interview with you. If you are the son of Dudley Ray, formerly residing at or near Elmira, what I have to say will be greatly to your advantage.

Will you write me at once, letting me know whether this be the case? Also state your present circumstances, and whether you need pecuniary help. It is unfortunate that we are so far apart. I am connected with a New York legal firm, and cannot very well go to California; but I might assist you to come to New York, if as I suppose, your means are limited. Will you write to me at once whether this is the case? I shall anxiously await your reply.

Benjamin Bolton,Attorney at Law.

182 Nassau Street, New York City.

Ernest read this letter with eager interest, and showed it to Luke Robbins.

“What do you think of it, Luke?” he asked.

“What do I think of it? It looks very much as if you were entitled to some money.”

“What shall I do?”

“Write this Mr. Bolton that you will go at once to New York, and call upon him.”

“But how about the store? I should not like to leave Mr. Ames in the lurch.”

“I will take your place here, and to qualify myself for it I will come in to-morrow, and begin to serve an apprenticeship.”

Ernest wrote to Bolton that he would start for New York in a week. He added that he had the money necessary for the journey. He said also that he was the son of Dudley Ray, and that he remembered visiting Elmira with his father.

When Bolton received this letter, he exclaimed triumphantly: “Now, Stephen Ray, I have you on the hip. You looked down upon me when I called upon you. In your pride, and your unjust possession of wealth, you thought me beneath your notice. Unless I am mistaken, I shall be the instrument under Providence of taking from you your ill-gotten gains, and carrying out the wishes expressed in the last will of your deceased uncle.”

Ernest left Oreville with four hundred dollars in his pocket. The balance of his money he left, in the hands of his friend Horace Ames, upon whom he was authorized to draw if he should have need.

“I don’t intend to carry all my money with me,” he said to Luke Robbins. “I might lose it all.”

“Even if you did, Ernest, you could draw on me. If you need it, do so without any hesitation.”

“You are a good friend, Luke,” said Ernest warmly. “What should I do without you?”

“I am beginning to wonder what I should do without you, Ernest. Suppose, now, this lawyer puts a fortune in your hands?”

“If he does, Luke, I am sure to need your help in some way.”

“Thank you, Ernest. I know you mean what you say. You may find a better friend, but you won’t find one that is more ready to serve you than Luke Robbins.”

“I am sure of that, Luke,” said Ernest with a bright smile as he pressed the rough hand of his faithful friend.

Ernest did not loiter on his way, though he was tempted to stop in Chicago, but he reflected that he would have plenty of chances to visit that bustling city after his business had been attended to.

As he approached Buffalo on the train his attention was attracted to two persons sitting a little distance in front of him. They were a father and son, as he gathered from the conversation.

The son was about his own age and size apparently, but rather more slender in figure. He had a peevish expression, and Ernest doubted whether he would like him.

“Father,” Ernest heard him say, “won’t you give me a little money? I am dead broke.”

“I gave you five dollars when we set out on this journey,” he said.

“Well, five dollars won’t last forever,” was the pert rejoinder.

“It ought to last more than four days, Clarence.”

Ernest started. He knew that his cousin’s name was Clarence. Could this be Stephen Ray and his son?

Even if it were so, he felt that it would not be advisable to make himself known. This business which was carrying him to New York might bring him into conflict with Stephen Ray. If so, he would not care to let his presence be known.

On arriving at Buffalo Ernest left the train. He had never visited Niagara, and being now so near he felt that he could not forego the opportunity.

He registered at the Tefft House, and decided to remain for a day. This would give him time to see the Falls.

Ernest had a room assigned to him, and went up to it at once to have the luxury of a good wash.

Five minutes afterward Stephen Ray and his son Clarence entered the hotel.

Mr. Ray, in a pompous manner, went up to the desk and said to the clerk: “Can you give me a good room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want a front room if you have it.”

“I can’t give you a front room, but I can give you a good side room.”

Stephen Ray grumbled a little, but finally decided to take the room offered him. He saw that his haughty manner did not impress the clerk, who was accustomed to men of his class.

Clarence looked over his father’s shoulder as he registered.

“Why, pa,” he exclaimed in surprise, “there’s another guest of our name.”

“Where?” asked his father.

“There, three names above your signature.”

CHAPTER XXXIV

A STRANGE MEETING

Stephen Ray looked at the register, and started violently as he read the entry:

“Ernest Ray, Oreville, California.”

“What’s the matter, pa?” asked Clarence, noticing his father’s agitation.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” answered his father with an effort.

“Haven’t we a cousin named Ernest Ray?”

“We had, but he is dead.”

“It is strange that there should be another person of the name.”

“Not at all. The world is large, and there are a good many persons of one name.”

“This one is from California.”

“So I see. By the way,” here Mr. Ray addressed the clerk, “did you observe the person who registered under the name of Ray?”

“Yes. It is a boy about the size of this young gentleman.”

“It is strange,” said Clarence. “It may be our cousin.”

“Didn’t I tell you that the person you refer to is dead?” said his father testily.

“I don’t believe it,” thought Clarence, but he did not express his unbelief. He determined, however, to have an interview with the boy, and find out all about him.

He saw Ernest at the table soon after, and so did Stephen Ray. The latter noted with alarm the resemblance of the boy to his cousin Dudley Ray, whose estate he had usurped.

“I hope Bolton won’t get hold of him,” he said to himself. “It would be dangerous to me.”

After supper Mr. Ray went out, leaving Clarence to himself.

He improved the opportunity. Seeing Ernest sitting alone, he went up to him.

“Is your name Ray?” he asked.

“Yes, Ernest Ray.”

“My name is Clarence Ray.”

“So I thought. We are cousins.”

“That’s what I told pa, but he said it was not so – that Ernest Ray was dead.”

“Your father’s name is Stephen Ray?”

“Yes.”

“I have known of him and you since I was old enough to remember anything.”

“Then you are really my Cousin Ernest?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder why pa said you were dead. I will tell pa he is mistaken.”

“No, Clarence, I would rather you wouldn’t. There are reasons why it is better not to say anything about it.”

“All right. Are you well off?”

Ernest smiled.

“I am not rich,” he said, “but I am comfortably fixed.”

“Do you live in California?”

“I have lived there for the last few months.”

“Why did you come East?”

“On a little business.”

“I am glad you are well off. I think pa was afraid you were a poor relation.”

“Your father is rich?”

“Yes, ever so rich. We’ve got a fine place near Elmira. If pa wasn’t so cranky I would invite you there to visit me.”

“Thank you all the same,” said Ernest, smiling.

Later in the evening, when Stephen Ray came in, Ernest noticed that he looked at him critically. He, too, examined the man who, he had reason to believe, was enjoying the estates that should be his, and was not attracted toward him.

“What will he say,” thought Ernest, “when I make a formal demand for the property?”

“What in the name of all that’s unlucky can have brought that boy here at this time?” Stephen Ray was saying to himself.

He never for an instant doubted Ernest’s identity – in fact, he could not well have done so, for he bore a strong resemblance to Dudley Ray.

Stephen Ray’s curiosity was excited. Ernest did not appear like the average poor relation. He was quite as well dressed as Clarence. Besides, he had registered at a high-priced hotel, which showed that he was not cramped for means.

This gave him satisfaction, as it made it less likely that he would appeal to him for assistance.

Stephen Ray was rather surprised that Clarence made no further reference to Ernest. Had he known that the two had had a conversation he would have been seriously disturbed. He hoped that Bolton would not get hold of the boy.

CHAPTER XXXV

MR. BOLTON AND HIS CLIENT

Benjamin Bolton sat at his desk in the law office of Albert Norcross, on Nassau Street. He was well, even handsomely dressed, and looked very unlike the shabby tramp who had called months before at the house of Stephen Ray.

He was really a man of ability which his employer had found out. He had raised Bolton’s salary to a liberal figure, and felt that in securing his services he had made a real acquisition.

Bolton was absorbed in preparation for a case which had been assigned to him, when a boy came to his desk with a card.

Bolton no sooner read the name, “Ernest Ray,” than he became eager and excited.

“Tell him to come in,” he said.

Ernest, quiet and self-possessed, entered the office and approached the lawyer’s desk.

“Are you Mr. Bolton?” he asked.

“Yes, and you – ”

“I am Ernest Ray.”

Benjamin Bolton looked keenly at the boy, admiring his handsome face and manly bearing.

“I see your father’s looks in you,” he said.

“Then you knew my father?” said Ernest.

“Yes. We were young men together.”

“I am glad to meet you, then.”

“You come from California?”

“Yes.”

“I judge from your appearance that you have not suffered from poverty.”

“I have been fortunate at Oreville. At Oak Forks I lived very humbly with Peter Brant, an old servant of my father.”

“Yes, I remember Peter. Is he alive still?”

“No, he died a little less than a year since. Till his death I thought him my uncle and knew no other relatives. Before he died he told me who I was.”

“How did he live?”

“On a small sum left by my father. When he died it was all exhausted except a hundred dollars. I took that and went to California with a man named Luke Robbins, who has proved my faithful friend.”

“What were you doing in California? Were you working at the mines?”

“No. I was keeping a store where I sold miners’ supplies.”

“Did it pay you well?”

“I was very well paid for a boy. When I left Oreville I was worth a thousand dollars.”

“That is well, but it is only a drop in the bucket compared with the fortune you are entitled to.”

“Now held by Mr. Stephen Ray?”

“Yes; he will be surprised to see you in the East.”

“He has seen me,” said Ernest quickly.

“What!” exclaimed the lawyer. “You have not called upon him?”

“No. I met him on the train and afterwards at a Buffalo hotel. My Cousin Clarence was with him.”

“Did you have any conference with them?”

“I talked with Clarence, not with his father.”

“Did you think the father knew you?”

“Yes, but he did not speak to me.”

“He told me when I called upon him some time ago that you were dead – that you died in Georgia.”

“What could have been his object?”

“He did not wish me to find you, for I had the proof that the estate was rightfully yours.”

“What led you to think I was alive?”

“I cross-examined Clarence, who did not know his father’s desire to keep us apart.”

“Is the estate a large one?”

“Quarter of a million, at least.”

Ernest’s eyes opened wide with amazement.

“But I will introduce you to Mr. Norcross, my principal, and we will talk over our plan of operations. You must assert your rights, and demand that your grandfather’s will be carried out. Are you content to place yourself in our hands?”

“Entirely so. But I am sorry for Cousin Stephen. It will be a great blow for him.”

“Don’t waste any pity upon him. He defrauded your father, and meant to defraud you.”

CHAPTER XXXVI

STEPHEN RAY ALARMED

“A gentleman to see you, sir.”

This was the message brought to Stephen Ray by the servant one morning.

“Did he give his name?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well; bring him up.”

Mr. Ray was sitting at the desk in his library. He was looking over some plans for the improvement of his handsome residence.

He proposed to enlarge a lower room by a bay window and to carry the piazza round on each side. It would cost something, but his income was ample – at least four times his expenditure.

He looked up as a handsomely dressed gentleman entered the room.

“What is your business, sir?” asked Stephen Ray formally.

The visitor smiled.

“You don’t recognize me, Stephen Ray?” he said.

“Benjamin Bolton!” exclaimed the other, his countenance changing.

“The same.”

“I judge from your appearance that your circumstances have improved,” said Mr. Ray coldly.

“Fortunately, yes.”

“I congratulate you.”

“Thank you. The money you kindly loaned me when I was last here did me a great deal of good.”

“I presume you have come to repay it,” said Ray, with a sneer.

“You are right,” and Bolton drew from his pocket two fifty-dollar bills, which he tendered to his host.

Stephen Ray was fond of money, and he received the notes with satisfaction.

“You have acted honorably,” he said more graciously. “Are you located in the neighborhood?”

“No, in New York City. I am in a law office there.”

“I am pleased with your success. I would ask you to remain, but I am quite busy this morning.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Ray, but the repayment of the loan was not my only errand. I am here on more important business.”

Stephen Ray’s countenance changed. He began to fear that Bolton had found Ernest.

“When I was here last year you told me that Dudley Ray’s son, Ernest, was dead.”

“Yes, he died in Alabama.”

“When I was here before you told me he died in Georgia.”

“I believe it was Georgia,” said Stephen Ray, disconcerted.

“You will be glad to hear that it is a mistake – about the death, I mean. He is as much alive as you are.”

“Mr. Bolton,” said Ray angrily, “you are trying to impose upon me. The boy is dead, I tell you.”

“And I tell you he is not dead. I saw him only yesterday.”

“You may have seen some one who pretended to be Ernest Ray.”

“I should not be easily deceived. He is the image of his father.”

“I don’t believe the boy is alive.”

“Shall I bring him here?”

“You need not trouble yourself. I can have nothing to say to him, whether he is really Ernest Ray, or an impostor.”

“I beg your pardon. If he is Ernest Ray, under the will which I have in my possession, he is the owner of this property.”

Bolton spoke firmly, and looked Ray resolutely in the eye.

Stephen Ray flushed and paled. There was a great fear in his heart, but he resolved to brave it out.

“This is a base conspiracy. Your share in it ought to land you in State’s prison.”

“I am willing to take my chance of it,” said the lawyer. “Didn’t you recognize the boy when you saw him?”

“What do you mean?”

“You saw him in the hotel at Buffalo. He recognized you, and had a conversation with your son.”

“Had a conversation with Clarence? That is a lie. Clarence never spoke to me about it.”

“You had better question him. But there is no need of sparring. I tell you confidently that Ernest Ray is alive, and demands the estate under his grandfather’s will, which you hold.”

“This is ridiculous. There is but one answer to such a proposal.”

“What is that?”

“I refuse absolutely to make any concession to an impostor.”

“That is your final answer?”

“It is.”

“Then I give you notice that the boy will at once bring suit for the restoration of the estate and the vindication of his rights.”

“I suppose you are his lawyer?” sneered Ray.

“The firm with which I am connected has undertaken the case.”

“What is the firm?” asked Stephen Ray with an anxiety which he could not conceal.

“Norcross & Co.,” answered Bolton.

Great drops of perspiration appeared on the brows of Stephen Ray. He knew well the high reputation and uniform success of the firm in question.

He did not immediately answer, but began to pace the room in agitation. Finally he spoke.

“This has come upon me as a surprise. I thought the boy dead. I may be willing to make some arrangement. Bring him here next week – say Tuesday – and we will talk the matter over.”

“You must do more than talk the matter over, Stephen Ray. A great injustice has been done, the wrong must be righted.”

“Come here next Tuesday,” was the only answer.

The lawyer bowed and withdrew.

CHAPTER XXXVII

ERNEST COMES INTO HIS OWN

On Tuesday Bolton returned with Ernest. Two hours were spent in conference with Stephen Ray. The latter fought hard, but yielded at last. He understood the strength of his opponent’s case.

Ernest consented to receive the estate as it was bequeathed to his father, without any demand for back revenues. Whatever Stephen Ray had accumulated besides, he was allowed to retain.

As this amounted to a hundred thousand dollars, Ray felt that it might have been worse. Had he not been dissuaded by Bolton, Ernest would have consented to share the estate with the usurper, but the lawyer represented that this would be condoning the wrong done to his father.

In a month the whole matter was settled, and Stephen Ray removed to Chicago, where he had business interests.

“But what shall I do with this large house?” asked Ernest. “I don’t want to live here.”

“I know a gentleman who would like to hire it for a term of years,” responded Bolton. “He will pay a rental of five thousand dollars a year. The bonds which you inherit will yield an income equally large.”

“So that my income will be ten thousand dollars a year?” said Ernest, dazzled.

“Yes.”

“What shall I do with it all?”

Bolton smiled.

“You are but seventeen,” he said. “A few years hence you will probably marry. Then you can occupy the house yourself. Meanwhile – ”

“I will go back to California. Luke will expect me. While I am away I appoint you my man of business. I wish you to have charge of my property at a proper commission.”

“I will undertake the charge with pleasure.”

Bolton knew how much this would increase his importance in the eyes of the firm by which he was employed. Ernest could not have made a better choice. Bolton was no longer intemperate. He was shrewd and keen, and loyal to his young employer.

Ernest returned to California, but he had lost his old zest for business, now that his fortune was secure. He soon came East again, and entered upon a plan of study, ending with a college course. He brought with him Frank Fox, the son of the dead outlaw, who regarded him with devoted affection. They lived together, and he placed Frank at a well-known school, justly noted for the success of its pupils.

Of the many boys with whom Frank associated not one suspected that the attractive lad, who was a favorite with all, was a son of the desperado whose deeds were a matter of common knowledge in the West. Ernest had cautioned the boy to say as little as possible of his past history.

Years have gone, what Bolton predicted has come to pass. Ernest is a college graduate, and will soon marry a young lady of high position in the city of New York. He will go abroad for a year, and on his return will make his home on his ancestral estate.

Last week he received a letter from a patient in a New York City hospital. It was signed John Franklin, a name with which he was not familiar.

In some wonder he answered the call, and was led to a bed on which lay a gaunt, spectral man, evidently in the last stage of existence.

“Is this John Franklin?” asked Ernest doubtfully.

“That is the name I go by now,” answered the dying man.

“Do I know you? Have I ever met you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t remember you.”

“If I tell you my real name, will you keep it secret?”

“Yes.”

“Then I am John Fox. You will not betray me?”

“No; certainly not. Can I do anything for you?”

“Yes; you are the guardian of my brother’s child.”

“Yes.”

“Is he alive? Is he well?”

“Yes.”

“Will you bring him here before I die?”

“I will. I cannot refuse the request of a dying man.” Ernest brought Frank to the bedside of his dying uncle. It was a sad interview. Frank was moved, but John Fox, seeing him strong, handsome, robust, felt comforted.

“He at least has profited by the fate that overtook his father and myself. I shall die content, for I leave him in good hands. Don’t let him think too hardly of us!”