“I saw what you were doing,” the butler replied. “Buying stocks, buying a country place. You didn’t wait for him to die. What were we getting?”
With returning courage, Rainey nodded vigorously.
“That’s right, all right,” he protested. “What were we getting?”
“What were you getting?” demanded Gaylor, eagerly. “If you’d only left him to me, till he signed the new will, you’d have had everything. It only needs his signature.”
“Yes,” interrupted Garrett contemptuously; “that’s all it needs.”
“Oh, he’d have signed it!” cried Gaylor. “But what’s it worth now! Nothing! Thanks to you two—nothing! They’ll claim undue influence, they’ll claim he signed it under the influence of mediums—of ghosts.” His voice shook with anger and distress. “You’ve ruined me!” he cried. “You’ve ruined me.”
He turned and paced from them, his fingers interlacing, his teeth biting upon his lower lip. The two other men glanced at each other uncomfortably; their silence seemed to assure Gaylor that already they regretted what they had done. He stood over Garrett, and for an instant laid his hand upon his shoulder. His voice now was sane and cold.
“I’ve worked three years for this,” he said. “And for you, too, Jim. You know that. I’ve worked on his vanity, on his fear of death, on his damn superstition. When he talked of restitution, of giving the money to his niece, I asked Why?’ I said, Leave it for a great monument to your memory. Isn’t it better that ten million dollars should be spent in good works in your name than that it should go to a chit of a child to be wasted by some fortune hunter? And—then—I evolved the Hallowell Institute, university, hospital, library, all under one roof, all under one direction; and I would have been the director. We should have handled ten millions of dollars! I’d have made you both so rich,” he cried savagely, “that in two years you’d have drunk yourselves into a mad-house. And you couldn’t trust me! You’ve filled this house with fakes and palm-readers. And, now, every one will know just what he is—a senile, half-witted old man who was clay in my hands, clay in my hands—and you’ve robbed me of him, you’ve robbed me of him!” His voice, broken with anger and disappointment, rose in an hysterical wail. As though to meet it a bell rang shrilly. Gaylor started and stood with eyes fixed on the door of the bedroom. The three men eyed each other guiltily.
The butler was the first to recover. With mask-like face he hastened noiselessly across the room. In his tones of usual authority, Gaylor stopped him.
“Tell Mr. Hallowell,” he directed, “that his niece and District Attorney Winthrop will be here any moment. Ask him if he wishes me to see them, or if he will talk to them himself?”