“Oh, it will turn up at the funeral, never fear.”
“I wish it might not.”
“Why?”
“Because then, by the old will, I should come in for the lot.”
“But if the old will is not forthcoming, or the new one, or any other, the property devolves to the heir-at-law, Ralph Burke, and you will not even get your allowance.”
Philipson, whose nervous system was considerably shattered, was so affected by this consideration, that Daireh thought it better to revive him with a dram of hope.
“If I can see you privately, without fear of interruption, I may be able to give you a useful hint,” he said. “The funeral takes place on Saturday, and if nothing is heard of a will then I will meet you next day. Where are you staying?”
Philipson gave his present address and left, thinking to himself as he walked up the street—
“I wonder what bit of roguery that scoundrel is up to now? If he has got anything good for me I shall have to pay rarely for it. Well, I am in too bad a way to care much for that; but he shall not bring me within the reach of the law. I have no fancy for going to jail, where there’s no liquor to be got—not likely. None of that, Mr Nigger. If he will take the risk I will pay the piper, and that is a fair enough division, I think. But I wonder what his little game is!”
But Daireh never made that Sunday call on Philipson. For on Saturday evening he heard a cry in the streets—“Important Arrest! Great Bond Robbery! Scandalous Disclosures!”