“But the man is healthy, and won’t die,” suggested Gomer, with a nonchalant air, which had its effect.
“Healthy men die very suddenly sometimes, you know,” said Chewkle, in a meaning tone; “and its a strornirary fact that men who are wanted out o’ the way goes out of the way jest in the nick o’ time.” Nathan felt the roots of his hair tingle and vibrate. The scoundrel meant murder: he was sure of that.
He made no answer. Chewlde dropped his head suddenly, and hissed in Nathan’s ear.
“S’pose old Wilton hisself was to turn up his toes when he was out a walking, eh? I ’spects Grahame would come in for the swag then, eh? Grahame’s a keen sort, I can tell you.”
Nathan’s face grew a deeper amber than ever; his eyes almost blazed in their brightness; he felt a kind of choking sensation; but he controlled himself.
“Wilton has a son,” he murmured.
“Gone away—not known where, as they says on the enwellops when a lawyer’s letter, with a writ in it, comes back,” replied Chewkle, quickly. “Ah!” he added, “Grahame would have possession of the lot before that young un turned up, and if he ever should show again, he wouldn’t easily get out of the Scotchman’s clutches.”
Nathan Gomer mused; presently he said—
“There is something in your suggestion worth consideration.”
“I knows there is,” chimed in Chewkle.