“Ay, I know you'll not believe it, because it is I that tell you; but there came out a fellow from Fordyce's with the same story, and when you open your letters you 'll see it again.”
Beecher's courage now deserted him, and the chair on which he leaned shook under his grasp.
“Here's how it is,” said Grog, in a calm, deliberate tone: “Dunn—that same fellow we called on one day together—has fallen upon a paper—a title, or a patent, or a writ, or something—that shows you have no claim to the Viscounty, and that it ought to go, along with the estates, to some man who represents the elder branch. Now Dunn, it seems, was some way deep with your brother. He had been buying land for him, and not paying, or paying the money and not getting the land,—at all events, he was n't on the square with him; and seeing that you might probably bring him to book, he just says, 'Don't go into accounts with me, and here's your title; give me any trouble, and I 'll go over to the enemy.'”
“But there can be no such document.”
“Fordyce's people say there is. Hankes, Dunn's own agent, told them the substance of it; and it seems it was on the list of proofs, but they never could lay a hand on it.”
Beecher heard no more, but taking up the lawyer's letter, which he had thrown so indignantly from him the night before, he began patiently to read it.
“Who can make head or tail of all this?” cried he, in angry impatience. “The fellow writes as if I was a scrivener's clerk, and knew all their confounded jargon. Mere schemes to extort money these!”
“Not always. There's now and then a real charge in the gun, and it's too late to know it when you 're hit,” cried Grog, quietly.
“Why do not Fordyce's people send out a proper person to communicate with myself directly,” said Beecher, haughtily. “They did, and I saw him,” said Grog, boldly.
Beecher grew crimson, and his lip trembled with a convulsive movement. It was very hard indeed to restrain himself, but, with an effort, he succeeded, and simply said, “And then—”