So well did Jimmy "shift" for himself that within a year he had squandered $10,000 and was hopelessly involved in debt. Once more the patient John straightened matters out, and when Jimmy said he thought he could win out in Wall Street if only given the chance, he purchased for him a seat on the Stock Exchange. Two years later, as a result of certain stock jobbing operations, not entirely free from scandal, he was temporarily suspended from the floor, and later forced to sell his seat to satisfy clamoring creditors who threatened to put him in jail. But thanks to the good John's liberal allowance, he was still able to put on a respectable front and thus for years he merely drifted, at heart a crook, but living the life of a gentleman of leisure, awaiting patiently the day when he would come into "his own."
The coming inheritance had thus gradually grown to be an obsession. Night and day it occupied his thoughts. He could think and talk of nothing else. His associates mockingly called him "Inheritance Jim." For twenty-five long years he waited for his brother to die, and when, from time to time, John in his few and far-between letters casually remarked that he was enjoying excellent health, he took the news almost in the light of a personal injury.
The years went on. The other cousins, William and Henry had died, each leaving a son. William's son, Peter Marsh, feeling within the spiritual call, became a Presbyterian minister at Rahway, and taking to himself a wife, succeeded in raising a numerous progeny on a very slender income. Henry's son, Thomas Marsh, followed his father's trade as haberdasher and barely managed to keep body and soul together. To these poor relatives, also, the dollars of "uncle" John proved an irresistible attraction. In order not to be forgotten, they wrote him affectionate letters, none of which received as much as an acknowledgment. Towards these impecunious cousins James Marsh assumed a patronizing, almost friendly, attitude. On divers occasions when his financial affairs became so critical that he had to negotiate a small loan without delay he had found even their slender savings useful. In return for these pecuniary services rendered he had not discouraged the hope which they often expressed that "uncle" John would remember them in his will. To serve his own ends he kept up the pleasant fiction that he was on the best of terms with his brother and that he would gladly use his influence in their interests.
As a matter of fact, nothing was further from the truth. He saw nothing of John. As the brothers grew older they drifted further apart. Months, years, passed without their seeing each other. When in urgent need of funds James made flying trips to Pittsburg, he never saw his brother anywhere but at his office. John never invited him to visit his home, a lonely place situated some miles out in the suburbs. Practically, the old man led the life of a recluse. At rare intervals he would write to his brother James, enclosing a cheque in answer to a begging letter, but otherwise he discouraged all attempts at intimacy. The old gentleman kept entirely to himself, growing more reserved and secretive about his affairs as the years passed. He saw absolutely no one and of recent years had spent six months out of the twelve in Europe. He might have been dead long ago for all that was seen of him.
But Jimmy did not worry. John's will was made, that he knew. Bascom Cooley, his own friend and lawyer, had drawn it up and witnessed its execution. He had it secure in his possession. If anything happened he would be informed of it at once. So there was nothing to worry about. All he had to do was to wait.
Meantime Jimmy, feeling the need of a companion, took to himself a wife. The lady was the widow of a man named Chase, who had held high position in one of the big insurance companies. The public investigations came with their awkward disclosures, and Mr. Chase, unable to face the limelight of publicity, conveniently succumbed to heart failure, leaving to his relict a few thousand dollars and the responsibility of looking after an eighteen-year-old son—a slangy, flippantly inclined youth rejoicing in the euphonious name of Todhunter, but whom everyone, his cronies and creditors both, knew as "Tod." Mrs. Chase, a stout, vulgar-looking woman, with hair startlingly yellow and teeth obviously false, met Mr. James Marsh at a dinner one night, and when, between courses, the inevitable inheritance yarn was detailed to her by an obliging neighbor, it at once flashed upon the widow that here was a man whose acquaintance it might be worth her while to cultivate. She had still a little money left out of the wreck of the defunct Chase's estate, and this immediate cash asset, she shrewdly reflected, might prove attractive to a man known to live up to every cent of his income, but whose "prospects" were simply dazzling. That he had no money of his own was no serious obstacle. Under the circumstances they could afford to dip into her principal, and by the time that was exhausted, the event which they both so devoutly desired could not fail to have happened.
The golden bait, thus adroitly hooked, soon caught the fish, and for the next year or two Mr. James Marsh had all the ready cash he needed. At the suggestion of the widow, who naturally was anxious to see in the flesh the mysterious brother on whose state of health so much depended, John was cordially invited to attend the wedding which was solemnized with much pomp at a fashionable Fifth Avenue Church. The wedding day came but no John. Not even by as much as a card did he extend his congratulations to the happy couple. The only members of the Marsh family present were Peter, the Presbyterian minister and his wife, from Rahway, and Thomas Marsh, the haberdasher and his wife, from Newark, while the genial Tod, a broad grin on his face, stood up for his mother.
The newly married pair took a showy house in West Seventy-second Street, and while the money lasted they lived in magnificent style. When it was gone they lived no less luxuriously, thanks to the unwilling coöperation of overconfident tradespeople. Mrs. Marsh felt that she could not get along without her motor car, her butler, and half a dozen useless maid servants. It cost money to entertain so lavishly and creditors were pressing, but her bridge parties could not be interfered with for such a trifling reason. At the pace they lived the few thousand dollars were soon exhausted, yet no matter. Even if the butcher, the baker, or the domestic servants were kept waiting for their money, the social prestige of the Marshes must be maintained.
It was far from being smooth sailing. Jimmy's wits were taxed to the utmost to ward off creditors who grew more and more importunate in their demands. One day while he was down town trying to raise a loan, Mrs. Marsh was subjected to such a mortifying and humiliating experience that she feared she would never rally from the nervous shock it caused her. It was her regular day at home, and Henry, the butler, stiff in gold embroidered livery, was busy at the front door ushering in carriage arrivals. As already hinted, his mistress was long in arrears with her tradespeople, and being ever apprehensive of a court summons, she had given Henry implicit instructions to carefully scrutinize all comers and slam the heavy door in their faces on the slightest suspicion that the visitors were not all they appeared to be. Having served the best families for nearly thirty years, Henry was in a position to assure his employer that he was more than a match for the wiliest lawyer. Nor had he overestimated his powers. Loudest among the clamoring creditors was the milkman. His bill was formidable, and every effort to collect it had failed. He procured a summons, but it was found impossible to serve it. Every trick known to the thick-soled sleuths of the sheriff's office was thwarted by the vigilant and resourceful Henry.
The worthy milkman suddenly conceived a bright idea. Among his customers was a young woman lawyer to whom he spoke about the matter. Properly indignant at the treatment to which he had been subjected she offered to help him. She was a novice at serving summonses, but possessed plenty of the quality so necessary in the courts known as "nerve." This modern Portia, after a preliminary survey of the premises which she was to take by storm, quickly determined upon a plan of action. Learning in the neighborhood that Mrs. Marsh was "at home" to her friends every Thursday afternoon, she decided to be one of the guests. Dressing herself in her best finery she took a hansom cab and drove to West Seventy-second Street, arriving at the Marsh residence simultaneously with a venerable old lady whom she politely assisted with her wraps. The old dame had no recollection of having seen the young woman before, but distrusting her own bad memory, concluded that she was one of Mrs. Marsh's younger friends whom she had forgotten, and thanked her profusely for her kind attentions. The two women approached the front door together. To the hawk-eyed butler, always on the alert, the young woman was a stranger, and, under ordinary circumstances, his suspicions might have been aroused, but seeing her chatting in the most cordial way with one of his mistress's oldest friends, he felt that any questioning on his part would be resented as unwarranted impertinence. Bowing low, therefore, he ushered the two ladies up the thickly carpeted stairs into the beautifully decorated reception rooms, which were already crowded with smartly dressed women. In the centre stood the amiable hostess, the conventional smile of welcome on her face, exchanging greetings with each arrival. When the new visitors were announced everyone turned, and Mrs. Marsh pranced amiably forward. Her venerable old friend she welcomed effusively, and then her eyes fell inquiringly on the stranger. The smile disappeared, a shadow darkened her face. Instinct told her something was wrong. Approaching the young woman she said with asperity: