Doctor Claudius, A True Story

by F. Marion Crawford

Mr. Barker sat unmoved in his chair; but he contemplated the nail on the middle finger of his left hand with absorbed interest, even bringing it nearer the light in order to obtain a better view.

He was one of those men who are seldom altogether unprepared. His mind was of the Napoleonic order, on a very small scale; with him to think of the end was to plan the means, and in the days that had followed the memorable night wherein the idea had struck him that he might marry the Countess in the teeth of Dr. Claudius, a project had grown up in his mind whereby he hoped now to effect his purpose. Perhaps the scheme had developed unconsciously, as often happens with persons whose lives are spent in planning. Perhaps he fondly hoped—for he was not without vanity—that he might yet win the Countess fairly, and had only contemplated his plot as a possibility. Be that as it may, from the moment he realised that a plan of action was necessary he also realised that the plan was ready, and he determined to put it into execution. It was an unfair plan he meditated, bad from the root up, and he knew it; but he did not hesitate on that account. Silas B. Barker junior had not enough conscience to make it an object for him to deceive himself as to the morality of his actions. A year or two since he would perhaps have defended himself in a general way by saying it was arrogance for a man to set himself up as any better than his surroundings. But between a year or two ago and this September evening there was set a gulf, represented by a couple of transactions in the "street," over which there was small joy in heaven and very little on earth.

Fair or unfair, it would be so much easier if Claudius were out of the way. It would simplify Mr. Barker's campaign so much; and, besides, it was so easy a matter to remove him, for a time at least. How? Why, simply by asserting that Claudius was not Claudius, that he was not the late Mr. Lindstrand's nephew, that he had no right to the fortune, and that if he wished to save himself trouble he had better return immediately to Heidelberg and resume his duties as a private lecturer in the University. It was easy enough! Who was there to show that Claudius was Claudius? There was nothing but the attestation of a wretched Heidelberg notary, who might easily have been persuaded to swear a little in consideration of a large bribe.

Besides, reflected Mr. Barker, the real Dr. Claudius was dead. He died about eight months ago; no doubt it was in the newspapers at the time, and a newspaper could certainly be found which should contain a notice of his death. Therefore, if the real Dr. Claudius were dead this Dr. Claudius was a sham, an impostor, a man obtaining money by personating the dead—in short, a criminal. However, it might not be necessary to proceed with all the rigour of the law, and he might be quietly sent back to Germany.

Of course Mr. Barker was responsible in some measure for having introduced this villain to the Countess and to the Duke. But how could Mr. Barker, a creature of sunny, lamb-like innocence, be expected to know an impostor at first sight? Claudius had acted his part so very well, you know, and Barker had been deceived by his apparent frankness; he had not even made any inquiries in Heidelberg, but had simply gone to the address his father had given him. Of course, also, the pretender had adopted the obvious expedient of taking the dead man's lodgings; had installed himself there, and called himself "Dr. Claudius." Nobody in America had ever seen the real Dr. Claudius; none of the yachting party had any means of knowing whether he were what he pretended to be or not; the only person who vouched for him was Silas B. Barker junior. And if Silas B. Barker junior would not vouch for him any longer, who would, pray? Obviously, no one.

"Dukes are very pretty things," said Mr. Barker; "and to know them intimately is a special grace. But they cannot swear to what they do not know anything about, any more than other people." And he lit another cigar, and looked at the clock, an old-fashioned black-marble timepiece with gilded hands. It wanted half an hour of midnight, and Mr. Barker's solitude had lasted since seven or thereabouts. Some one entered the room, bidding good-night to some one else at the door. Mr. Barker turned his eyes, and, recognising a friend, he smiled a wrinkled smile.

"Well, Mr. Screw, how goes it?" he said. "It is some time since we met."

"Happy to meet you, sir; glad to see you," replied the lawyer, putting out a long hand towards the part of the room where Mr. Barker was standing.

Mr. Screw was Mr. Scratch's partner. Mr. Screw was very tall, very thin, and exceedingly yellow. He had thick yellow hair, streaked with gray. His face seemed bound in old parchment, and his eyes were like brass nails driven very deep, but bright and fixed when he spoke. He had a great abundance of teeth of all sizes and shapes; his face was clean shaven; and he wore a stand-up collar, with a narrow black tie neatly adjusted in a bow. His feet and hands were of immense size. He was in evening-dress. He doubled up a few of his joints and deposited himself in a deep arm-chair—the twin of Barker's—on the other side of the fireplace.

"I thought very likely you would be here before the evening was out," said Mr. Barker. "Yes," he continued after a pause, "that is the reason I came here. I wanted to see you on business, and I missed you to-day down town."