Ralph Raymond's Heir

CHAPTER VII.

PAUL MORTON HAS A VISITOR

Paul Morton's consternation can hardly be described, when, in the number who had come to witness the funeral ceremonies of Ralph Raymond, he recognized the shopman in the obscure druggist's shop where he had purchased the poison. The sweat stood out upon his brow, and he eagerly questioned himself—how much did this man know, or what did he suspect, or was his presence purely accidental?

But he could hardly believe that a man in such a position would attend the funeral, unless he had some object in view. How had he found out his name and residence? Was it possible that he had been tracked?

He looked furtively at the young man, now grown an object of strange and dread interest to him. He noted his insignificant features, and the general meanness of his appearance, and he began to pluck up courage.

"Suppose he does suspect anything," he thought; "will his testimony be believed against mine? A miserable druggist's clerk, probably on a starvation salary. At the worst I can buy him off for a small sum."

Reassured by these thoughts, he recovered his boldness, and in looking about him, did not hesitate to meet the gaze of James Cromwell, without suffering a trace of the first agitation to be seen.

But that first agitation had been observed at the time by the druggist's clerk, and he had drawn his own conclusions from it.

"He has used the poison," he said to himself, "and it is for that reason that my presence alarms him," he said.

At length the funeral ceremonies were over.

The company who were assembled left the house, and with them James Cromwell. He went back to his room, not feeling that it was of importance to remain longer. He had shown himself at the funeral, he had been recognized, and thus he had paved the way for the interview which he meant to have, and that very shortly.

Two evenings later, he approached the house in Twenty-ninth Street, and ascending the steps, boldly rang the bell.

The servant who answered the summons, looked at him inquiringly, supposing from his appearance that he had merely come to bring some message.

"Is Mr. Morton at home?"

"Yes, he is at home."

"I would like to see him."

"He doesn't see visitors, on account of a death in the family. I will carry your message."

"I must see him," insisted the clerk, boldly.

"I don't think he will see you."

"I do. So go and tell him I am here."

"What name shall I carry to him?"

"The name is of no consequence. You can tell him that the young man whom he noticed at the funeral is here, and wishes to see him on very important business."

"That's a queer message," thought the servant, but concluded that it was some one who had something to do with furnishing something for the funeral, and was anxious to get his pay.

Mr. Morton was sitting in his library, or a room furnished with books, which went by that name, when the servant entered.

"There is somebody to see you, sir," she said.

"Who is it?"

"I don't know his name."

"Is it a gentleman?"

"No, sir."

"Did you tell him I was not receiving visitors now?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well?"

"He said he wanted to see you on very important business."

"Why didn't he give his name?"

"He said that I was to tell you it was the young man you noticed at the funeral," said the servant.

Mr. Morton turned pale, but at once recovered himself.

"I am not sure that I know who it is," he said, "but I can easily ascertain. You may bring him up."

"You are to come up," said the girl reappearing.

James Cromwell smiled in conscious triumph.

"I thought so," he said to himself. "Well, now for my game. It will be a difficult one, but I will do my best."

Left alone, Paul Morton began to consider how he should treat the new-comer. He resolved to affect no recognition at first, and afterward indifference. He thought he might be able to overawe the young man, from his own superiority in social position, and so prevent his carrying out the purpose he proposed.

Accordingly, when James Cromwell entered the room, he arched his brows a little, and looked inquiringly at him.

"Have you business with me?" he said, abruptly. "Did not my servant inform you that, on account of a recent death, I am not receiving callers at present?"

"I thought you would see me," said the young man, with a mixture of familiarity and boldness.

"Really, I don't know what claims you have to be excepted to my rule," said Paul Morton, haughtily. "If you are a tradesman, and have a claim against me, you might have sent it in the regular way."

"I am not a tradesman, and I have no claim against you, Mr. Morton," said the young man—"that is, no regular claim."

"You speak in riddles, sir," said Mr. Morton, in the same haughty tone. "If you have no business with me, I am at a loss to know why you have intruded yourself upon me at such a time. Perhaps, however, you were unaware of my recent affliction."

"I am quite aware of it, Mr. Morton. In fact, I was present at the funeral, if you refer to the death of Mr. Raymond, and unless I am greatly mistaken, you yourself observed me there."

"You were present at the funeral! What brought you here?"

"That seems rather an inhospitable question. For some reasons of my own, I felt an interest in what was going on in this house, and made it my business to become acquainted with all that passed. When I heard of Mr. Raymond's death, I resolved at once to attend the funeral."

"I suppose you must have known Mr. Raymond, then," said Paul Morton, with something of a sneer.

"No, I had not the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with the gentleman," said James Cromwell, who, far from being overawed by the evident haughty tone of the other, preserved his composure with admirable success.

"Then let me repeat, I do not understand why you should have taken the trouble to be present at his funeral. Persons, in general, wait for an invitation before intruding on such occasions," he added, with a palpable sneer.

"He wouldn't parley so long if he did not know me and fear me," thought James Cromwell, and this conclusion showed that he was not without a certain natural shrewdness.

"Was Mr. Raymond rich?" he asked, nonchalantly.

This was more than Paul Morton could bear. He was naturally an irritable man, and he had been obliged to exercise considerable self-control thus far in the interview. It angered him that this insignificant druggist's clerk—this miserable specimen of a man—should have ventured to intrude himself in this manner on his privacy, but the terror of his crime and the consciousness that this man suspected it, had hitherto restrained him.

But when James Cromwell asked this question, sitting coolly, with one leg crossed over the other, and staring impudently in his face, he could not restrain himself any longer. He rose to his feet with angry vehemence, and pointing to the door with a finger literally quivering with rage, he said, hoarsely:

"You impertinent scoundrel! begone instantly, or I will summon my servants and have you kicked down my front steps!"

"That might not be altogether prudent, Mr. Morton," said James Cromwell.

"Might not be prudent! What do you mean by your cursed impudence?" demanded the merchant, glaring furiously at the druggist's clerk.

"What do I mean?" repeated James Cromwell. "Do you wish me to answer your question?"

"I demand that you answer my question, and that immediately," said the merchant, hardly knowing what he did, so carried away was he by his unreasonable anger.

"Very well, I will do so," said the clerk, quietly, "but, as it may take a brief time, will you not be kind enough to resume your seat?"

CHAPTER VIII.

JAMES CROMWELL'S TRIUMPH

The coolness displayed by James Cromwell had its effect upon the merchant. Mechanically he obeyed, and resumed his seat.

"Say what have you to say, and be done with it," he muttered.

"In the first place, then, I beg leave to ask you a question. Do you not remember me?" and the clerk looked searchingly with his cold gray eyes in the face of Paul Morton.

"I may possibly have met you before," he replied with an effort, "but I meet a great many people, and there is no particular reason, that I am aware of, why I should remember you in particular."

"I also meet a considerable number of persons," said James Cromwell, "but circumstances have led me to remember you very well."

"Well, grant that you remember me," said the merchant, with nervous impatience, "what then?"

"It may be necessary for me to remind you that I am employed in a druggist's shop on the Bowery."

"I hope you like your situation," said Paul Morton, with a sneer.

"No, I don't like it, and that is the reason why I have come to you, hoping that you will help me to something better."

This was said with quiet self-possession, and Paul Morton began to realize with uneasiness that this young man, whom he had looked upon with contempt, was not so easily to be overawed or managed as he had expected.

"This is a cool request, considering that you are a comparative stranger to me."

"But consider the peculiar circumstances," said James Cromwell, significantly.

"What peculiar circumstances?" demanded the merchant, desperately.

"Shall I mention them?" asked Cromwell, pointedly.

"If you want me to understand, yes. You are talking in enigmas, and I never was good at understanding enigmas."

"Then," said James Cromwell, leaning slightly forward, and looking intently at Mr. Morton, "may I ask to what use you have put the subtle poison which you purchased of me ten days since?"

The color rushed to Paul Morton's face at this direct interrogation.

"The poison?" he repeated.

"Yes, you certainly have not forgotten the purchase."

"I think you must be mistaken in the person."

"Pardon me, I am not."

"Suppose that I did buy poison, how should you identify me with the purchaser, and how came you to know where I lived?"

"I sent a boy to follow you home," said Cromwell.

"You dared to do that?"

"Why not? We have no curiosity about our ordinary customers, but when a person makes such a purchase as you did, we feel inclined to learn all we can about him."

"A praiseworthy precaution! Well, I admit that I did buy the poison. What then?"

"I asked to what purpose you had put it?"

"Very well, I have no objection to tell you, although I deny your right to intrude in my private affairs, which I regard as a piece of gross impertinence. I bought it, as I think I stated to you at the time, at the request and for the use of a friend."

"Would you tell me the friend's name?" asked the clerk, imperturbably.

"He lives in Thirty-seventh Street."

"What is his name?"

"None of your business," exclaimed the merchant, passionately.

"I beg your pardon, but I was blamed by my employer for not taking down the name of the purchaser, and I told him in return that I would gather full particulars."

"You may tell him it is all right. He must have heard of me and of my firm, and that will satisfy him."

"But the name of this gentleman in Thirty-seventh Street–"

"It is not necessary to the purpose."

"Has there been a death in his family within ten days?" asked the clerk in quiet tones, but there was a significance in them which sent a thrill through the frame of his listener.

"What makes you ask that?" he stammered.

"I will tell you," said James Cromwell, boldly throwing off his reserve. "It is as well to be frank, and there is no use in mincing matters. I do not believe this story of the man in Thirty-seventh Street. I think you bought the article for your own use. Since the purchase there has been a death in your house."

"Your inference is ridiculous," said the merchant, nervously. "My intimate and dear friend, Mr. Raymond, was sick of an incurable disease, as the physician will testify, and it could have terminated in no other way."

"I am quite willing to believe you are right," said the clerk. "Still, under the circumstances, you will not object to an investigation. I feel it my duty to inform a coroner of the facts in the case, and if on examination no traces of the action of poison can be found in the deceased, of course you are entirely exonerated from suspicion!"

"What!" exclaimed Paul Morton. "Do you think I will suffer myself to be subjected to such a degrading suspicion—a man of my position in society—what advantage could I possibly reap from my friend's death?"

"He was a rich man," suggested James Cromwell, significantly.

"That is true," said the merchant, with self-possession. "He was a rich man."

"And he may have left his property to you."

"You happen to be mistaken there. He had left his property to his son, a boy of fourteen."

"Where is this son?" asked the clerk, a little taken aback by this discovery, which was new to him.

"He is now in my house."

"And suppose the boy dies?"

It was now Paul Morton's turn to hesitate.

"That is not very probable," he said. "He is a strong, vigorous boy."

"Who is to be his guardian?"

"I am."

"Indeed! And if he dies, is there no provision made as to the property?"

"It will go to me, if he dies before attaining his majority."

The clerk coughed—a little significant cough—which annoyed Mr. Morton not a little. It conveyed an imputation which he couldn't resent, because it was indirect.

"I hope you are satisfied," he said at length.

"Oh, certainly; that is, nearly so," said James Cromwell: "but then it is not enough that I should be satisfied."

"Why not?"

"My employer may not be."

"Does your employer know who made the purchase?"

"No, I have not as yet communicated the name to him."

"Don't tell him, then. It is none of his business."

"He will not agree with you there."

"What matter if he does not?"

"You must remember that I am a poor clerk, dependent on my salary, and that in my position, it is not safe to risk offending my employer. Suppose I am discharged from my position, how am I to live?"

"Can you not procure another situation?"

"Not if he refuses his recommendation, which would probably be the case. Besides, our business is crowded, and under the most favorable circumstances I might be weeks, and possibly months, without employment."

Paul Morton leaned his head on his hand, and considered what was to be done with this difficult visitor. It was evident that he expected to be bought off and that he must be.

"What wages do you get?" he asked, looking up.

"Twenty dollars a week, sir," said Cromwell.

As the reader knows, this was just double what he did receive, and as Mr. Morton was not likely to inquire of his employer, he felt that the lie was a safe one, and likely to conduce to his advantage.

"Twenty dollars a week! Very well, I will tell you what you must do. In the first place, you must refuse to make your employer any communications respecting this affair."

"Very well, sir."

"And if he discharges you, I will pay you twenty dollars a week until you can get another situation. Perhaps I may find you some other employment, unless you prefer your present business."

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