“Now, gentlemen,” began my grandfather, seating himself, “I owe you an apology; this little secret of mine was shared by only two persons. One of these was Bates,” —he paused as an exclamation broke from all of us; and he went on, enjoying our amazement,—“and the other was Marian Devereux. I had often observed that at a man’s death his property gets into the wrong hands, or becomes a bone of contention among lawyers. Sometimes,” and the old gentleman laughed, “an executor proves incompetent or dishonest. I was thoroughly fooled in you, Pickering. The money you owe me is a large sum; and you were so delighted to hear of my death that you didn’t even make sure I was really out of the way. You were perfectly willing to accept Bates’ word for it; and I must say that Bates carried it off splendidly.”
Pickering rose, the blood surging again in his face, and screamed at Bates, pointing a shaking finger at the man.
“You impostor,—you perjurer! The law will deal with your case.”
“To be sure,” resumed my grandfather calmly; “Bates did make false affidavits about my death; but possibly—”
“It was in a Pickwickian sense, sir,” said Bates gravely.
“And in a righteous cause,” declared my grandfather. “I assure you, Pickering, that I have every intention of taking care of Bates. His weekly letters giving an account of the curious manifestations of your devotion to Jack’s security and peace were alone worth a goodly sum. But, Bates—”
The old gentleman was enjoying himself hugely. He chuckled now, and placed his hand on my shoulder.
“Bates, it was too bad I got those missives of yours all in a bunch. I was in a dahabiyeh on the Nile and they don’t have rural free delivery in Egypt. Your cablegram called me home before I got the letters. But thank God, Jack, you’re alive!”
There was real feeling in these last words, and I think we were all touched by them.
“Amen to that!” cried Bates.