All this would happen, if only he, and not this interloping American, were Baron of Killcrichtoun.
He brooded too constantly and profoundly over the advantages that must have accrued to him had he been the fortunate inheritor of Killcrichtoun, as might have happened had it not been for this interloping stranger who had no business in the country.
He felt a morbid interest in the foreigner who was so fortunate as to succeed to the title, and be able to disregard the small estate that came with it.
He took pains to learn as much as possible of Lord Killcrichtoun’s history. He was often in his lordship’s company, in streets and shops and other common ground where they could meet on equal terms. He talked much to him and of him, and so learned more of his antecedents than was known to any one else out of the family in London.
He often met Alexander in his well-known haunts, walked with him, sat with him, and smoked with him. Occasionally, at Alick’s invitation, he ate and drank with him.
Why not? If Lord Killcrichtoun was unmarried, as he was generally supposed to be, then Clarence Everage was heir presumptive to the title and estate.
True, he knew that the present baron was some five or six years younger than himself, and in that view of the case there was little hope of the inheritance.
But, on the other hand, Alexander, like the generality of American men, was tall and lank, thin and sallow, with that appearance of ill-health which was not real, but which was greatly enhanced by the careworn and haggard expression of countenance which had characterized his face ever since his abandonment of Drusilla.
So, upon the whole, Clarence Everage, gazing gloomily upon Lord Killcrichtoun, thought the chances of his lordship’s death by consumption, and of his own accession to the title and estate, within a year or two, were very good.
“If only,” he said to himself, “the fool should not in the meantime marry and have an heir. That would make the case hopeless indeed.”