It contained within a beautifully-finished pair of pistols. He took one out, and examined it.
“It is loaded,” he muttered, “and in good order.”
He replaced it in the velvet compartment made to receive it, and returned the case to the drawer, which he closed and locked.
“They are there when needful,” he said, between his clenched teeth. “A Grahame knows how to die, but not to endure the degradation of poverty and ignominy. I will never die a pauper’s death!” he added, with a fearful oath.
He pressed his hands over his burning forehead, and racked his brain to find a path by which he could conquer his difficulties.
“That usurious wretch, Gomer, has promised me funds upon the very document which before this he must know will not be completed,” he muttered. “What is to be done? What if I persist in affirming that the signature has been given, and act upon the man Chewkle’s advice, suborn the men he named, and boldly claim the whole property? It is an enormous prize, and worth the risk. I can pay the villains well to hold their tongues until I am fairly in possession, and then—then—who knows—at some carouse at which all are assembled to celebrate their success—something in their drink may make them sleep—sleep to the day of doom. I do not like the man, Chewkle; the scoundrel is beginning to grow insultingly familiar, and will, I foresee, ere long assume a mastery over me. I must specially direct my attention to his permanent welfare. When, by his aid, my scheme is consummated, then—then if he escapes what I shall prepare for him, his good fortune will be a marvel”——
“Mr. Chewkle, sir!” exclaimed a servant, suddenly throwing open the library door.
Mr. Grahame’s heart leaped within him, and it palpitated painfully, but he exhibited his accustomed cold hauteur.
“Show him in!” he exclaimed.
Chewkle entered with the air of a chap-fallen, disappointed man. His manner presented a strong contrast to the half-drunken, offensive, easy indifference it had displayed the evening before.