Still his application might, probably would, be unsuccessful; and in that case, what then? There would be nothing for it—an undesirable alternative—but to put the police on the track of the advertiser.
For that day and the next he lay close, not going near the Agency; and, on the third morning, there was a telegram awaiting him at the post-office. He opened it, somewhat nervously, and read:—
“Offer accepted provisionally. Be ten to-morrow morning at Church Army Home, Unemployed Yard, Coldbath Lane, Brixton. W.W.”
So, after all, he was chosen! Fervently he hoped that he would not be found wanting. And that thought had its necessary corollary in another. What was he going to do when he met Mr Winsom Wyllie face to face? Why, apparently, a thing which he had never done in his life before—chop wood.
It seemed quite paralysing, astounding. He had never until this moment thought out his course of action, and here was the problem actually squaring up to him. He had to chop wood—that was the only fact immediately plain to his comprehension. True the man had behaved vilely in intention to an unhappy young woman dependent on him; true that same young woman had, by her own confession, accused him of coercing her father into making a testament in his favour, and of afterwards tempting that parent opportunely to his doom. But that was all conjecture, and however morally irrefutable, not a particle of legal evidence existed to substantiate the charge. Legally, indeed, the heir’s position seemed unassailable. He had been left the property conditionally, and the conditions had resulted in his favour. By the provisions of the will, since the young lady had failed to marry him within the year, he was become the sole and indisputable beneficiary. And what else?
Nothing else. Vague surmises, shadowy charges—what was there in them all? Gilead was worldling enough to know that there was never yet a disappointed legatee who did not hint darkly of undue influences or mental irresponsibility. That a testator did not do what was expected of him was no ground for action in the eye of the law.
Did this chivalrous spirit, therefore, shrink at the last from its self-imposed Quest? Not for a moment. The Law to Gilead was nothing but a sifter of evidence. It took no cognizance of obscure motives, but decided on the facts before it, with which facts any clever counsel could juggle as with balls or handkerchiefs. Mr Winsom Wyllie might, legally, be altogether unassailable; the fact remained that he was enjoying a small fortune to the possession of which another was by every moral right entitled. That was enough for the Paladin.
Or was he so enjoying it? That same afternoon Gilead paid another visit to Somerset House—only to find that the will, so far as he could discover, remained yet unproved. He was puzzled; but on the whole reassured. Surely this delay argued some remorse, at least some hesitation, on the part of the legatee? Or did it imply a reluctance in him to take that step which must put his coveted victim for ever beyond the reach of his arts and solicitations? Whichever way, nothing but advantage could accrue from his ascertaining that wealth, and the power which it bestows were engaged, and sternly, on the side of the young lady. The warning, for the best of its value, should not be thrown away upon such a man, so audacious and yet so wary.
Ten o’clock the following morning found Gilead punctual to his appointment in Coldbath Lane, Brixton. It was not a prepossessing neighbourhood, nor was the day exhilarating. Under a cloudy sky brooded an atmosphere of sticky humidity. The squalor of a deep-London slum was represented by everything in the way of dreariness but its swarming life. Here were the dull dwelling-houses, the tawdry shops, the costers’ barrows, the stench of fish frying in rancid grease. Only the human congestion was less—nothing in comparison. A postman, with a flaccid bag, suggestive of a lean correspondence, over his shoulder, directed him to the yard for the unemployed—directed him dubiously, too, knowing that want often strutted in strange guises. Gilead knocked on the closed gates, and waited.
An asthmatic sound of sawing, which had been audible within, ceased, resumed itself like an arrested cough, stopped again, and, after an interval, a slow heavy footstep approached.