“So that is the heir. I can understand now why Barton came to me. He did not think he would live till he came to be of age. He may not. No one can say. He may live for years—these sort of people always do. If he outlives the old man, as is likely enough, I shall at most get a third. I suppose he will leave the boy the estates and me his money, and, perhaps, some of the farms. Of course I must make myself pleasant to this imp, in case he should outlive the old one. But I don’t think he will,” he added, more cheerfully; “Barton evidently did not give him a year—and he mayn’t even last that. Still this will shake my credit with the Jews. I shall have difficulty in getting them to wait. Of course my agreement is at an end with Barton. I agreed to pay him at my uncle’s death, in the event of no nearer heir appearing. Yes, he will be sold anyhow. If the boy dies it will, after all, be a lucky thing he has turned up. Besides, even after paying Barton, he might have been an annoyance in some sort of way. Yes, it may be for the best after all. How Barton must have sworn when he heard it. I wish I had been there to watch his face. The laugh would have been upon my side, I fancy. No wonder he wouldn’t tell me who the heir was—an old fox. By Jove!” and here he stopped in his walk in consternation, “he has got that paper of mine. He was safe enough to keep it dark before, for it was worth twelve thousand pounds to him; now it’s worth nothing, and if he chooses to show it to the old man I am ruined. By Gad! I am completely under his thumb;” and for once, in his despair at this new danger, Fred Bingham lost his jaunty, elastic walk, and crawled along Piccadilly with the step of an old man. Presently he hailed a cab, and when he reached home astonished the servant by taking a candle and going straight up to his bedroom, without a single unpleasant remark. The next morning he went down to Mr. Barton’s office. That worthy had by one of his emissaries learnt that Fred Bingham had returned to town the day before, and had gone up in the evening to Captain Bradshaw’s. Fred Bingham was paler than usual, but he was cool and collected, and thoroughly prepared for the encounter. He began the conversation.
“Of course you have heard that the boy has turned up?”
“Yes, Mr. Bingham; I have heard that, and it is a bad job for both of us—worse for me though than for you. It will do you no harm in the long run; he won’t live the year out.”
“It was sharp practice of yours, Barton, coming to me when you found he was not likely to live to come of age. A deucedly clever stroke though. But I don’t think he’s as bad as you think. My uncle told me he has picked up a great deal in the few days since he came there.”
“I tell you he won’t see out the year, sir. I heard him cough every three minutes the last time I was with him; if he ain’t in a consumption I never heard anyone. Naturally enough the excitement has brightened him up for a while; but, take my word, he is not good for a year.”
Fred Bingham felt his hopes revive. “Well, you may be right,” he said. “By the way,” he added, indifferently, “as he has turned up, you may as well return me that agreement of mine; of course it is useless now.”
“Well, Mr. Bingham, I have been thinking that little matter over, and I think, on the whole, I should prefer to keep it,” the detective said, with a cold smile.
“I do not see that it can be of any use to you now, Barton. It expressly states the money is only to be paid in the event of no nearer heir making his appearance, and now this boy has turned up it is of course worthless.”
“Well, as a legal document it is not of much value, I allow. But it’s as a sort of keepsake I should wish to preserve it, for a while at least. It’s all I’ve got, you see, after twenty years waiting.”
“Come, Barton, it’s no use our beating about the bush—what will you take to give it up?”