“No—stay here!” she said in a low voice. “You can do no good. He knew we were here—something must have happened! Oh, George, what is it?”
“If you will let me go and see——”
But at that moment, it became evident to both that Tom Craik was no longer alone. Totty had entered the drawing-room. As the servant had said, she had been expected every moment. Her brother turned upon her furiously, brandishing the will and cursing louder than before. In his extreme anger he was able to lift up his head and look her in the eyes.
“You damned infernal witch!” he shouted. “You abominable woman! You thief! You swindler! You——”
“Help! help!” screamed Totty. “He is mad—he means to kill me!”
“I am not mad, you wretch!” yelled Tom Craik, pursuing her and catching her with one hand while he shook the will in her face with the other. “Look at that—look at it! My will, here in your keeping, without so much as a piece of paper or a seal to hold it—you thief! You have broken into your husband’s office, you burglar! You have broken open my deed-box—look at it! Do you recognise it? Stand still and answer me, or I will hold you till the police can be got. Do you see? The last will and testament of me Thomas Craik, and not a cent for Charlotte Trimm. Not one cent, and not one shall you get either. He shall have it all, George Winton Wood, shall have it all. Ah—I see the reason why you have kept it now—If I had found it gone, you know I would have made it over again! Cheaper, and wiser, and more like you to get him for your daughter—of course it was, you lying, shameless beast!”
“What is the meaning of this?” George asked in ringing tones. He had broken away from Mamie with difficulty and she had followed him into the room, and now stood clinging to her mother. George pushed Tom Craik back a little and placed himself between him and Totty, who was livid with terror and seemed unable to speak a word. The sudden appearance of George’s tall, angular figure, and the look of resolution in his dark face brought Tom Craik to his senses.
“You want to know the meaning of it,” he said. “Quite right. You shall. When I was dying—nearly three years ago, I made a will in your favour. I left you everything I have in the world. Why? Because I pleased. This woman thought she was to have my money. Oh, you might have had it, if you had been less infernally greedy,” he cried, turning to Totty. “This will was deposited in my deed-box at Sherry Trimm’s office. Saw it there, on the top of the papers with my own eyes the last time I went; and Sherry was in Europe then. So you took it, and no one else. Poor Bond did not, though as he is dead, you will say he did. It will not help you. So you laid your trap—oh yes! I know those tricks of yours. You broke off George Wood’s marriage with the girl he loved, and you laid your trap—very nicely done—very. You gave him Sherry’s wines, and Sherry’s cigars to make him come. I know all about it. I was watching you. And you made him come and spend the summer up the river—so nice, and luxurious, and quiet for a poor young author. And you told nobody he was there—not you! I can see it all now, the moonlight walks, and the rides and the boating, and Totty indoors with a headache, or writing letters. It was easy to get Sherry’s consent when it was all arranged, was it not? Devilish easy. Sherry is an honest man—I know men—but he knew on which side his daughter’s bread was buttered, for he had drawn up the will himself. He did not mind if George Winton Wood, the poor author, fell in love with his daughter, any more than his magnanimous wife was disturbed by the prospect. Not a bit. The starving author was to have millions—millions, woman! as soon as the old brother was nailed up and trundled off to Greenwood! And he shall have them, too. It only remains to be seen whether he will have your daughter.”
Craik paused for breath, though his invalid form was as invigorated by his extreme anger as to make it appear that he might go on indefinitely in the same strain. As for George he was at first too much amazed by the story to believe his ears. He thought Craik was mad, and yet the presence of the will which the old man repeatedly thrust before his eyes and in which he could not help seeing his own name written in the lawyer’s large clear hand, told him that there was a broad foundation of truth in the tale.
“Defend yourself, Totty,” he said as quietly as he could. “Tell him that this story is absurd. I think Mr. Craik is not well——”