“Nor any near relatives to step in and get your property if your son should die suddenly?”
“I have no relations living to my knowledge, the last one dying some two or three years ago in California. He was stabbed in some drunken quarrel.”
“What was his name?” asked Hardscrabble, an odd smile playing over his lips.
“James Van Dorn,” said Radcliffe. “He was my first cousin, and the only relative left me for many years.”
Hardscrabble’s hand went up to his face with an adroit motion, and he removed the heavy beard.
It made him look ten years younger, but did not take the dare-devil look from his face.
“Don’t you know me?” he said.
Radcliffe peered closely at him, and then said slowly:
“Yes, you are Van Dorn.”
“Just so, I am James Van Dorn,” said the visitor, and then put the poniard in his pocket with a pleasant laugh. “Only did this as a joke, you know. How much are you going to leave me in your will, Cousin Radcliffe, now that you know I’m alive?”