“No, she doesn't,” replied Garrison quietly.
“Tell you as much, eh?”
“Yes.”
Again Major Calvert chuckled. “Well, she told me different. Oh, yes, she did, you rascal. And I know Sue better than you do. Family wishes wouldn't weigh with her a particle if she didn't like the man. No, they wouldn't. She isn't the kind to give her hand where her heart isn't. She likes you. It remains with you to make her love you.”
“And that's impossible,” added Garrison grimly to himself. “If she only knew! Love? Lord!”
“Wait a minute,” said the major, as Garrison prepared to leave. “Here's a letter that came for you to-day. It got mixed up in my mail by accident.” He opened the desk-drawer and handed a square envelope to Garrison, who took it mechanically. “No doubt you've a good many friends up North,” added the major kindly. “Have 'em down here for as long as they can stay. Calvert House is open night and day. I do not want you to think that because you are here you have to give up old friends. I'm generous enough to share you with them, but—no elopements, mind.”
“I think it's merely a business letter,” replied Garrison indifferently, hiding his burning curiosity. He did not know who his correspondent could possibly be. Something impelled him to wait until he was alone in his room before opening it. It was from the eminent lawyer, Theobald D. Snark.
“BELOVED IMPOSTOR: 'Ars longa, vita brevis,' as the philosopher has truly said, which in the English signifies that I cannot afford to wait for the demise of the reverend and guileless major before I garner the second fruits of my intelligence. Ten thousand is a mere pittance in New York—one's appetite develops with cultivation, and mine has been starved for years—and I find I require an income. Fifty a week or thereabouts will come in handy for the present. I know you have access to the major's pocketbook, it being situated on the same side as his heart, and I will expect a draft by following mail. He will be glad to indulge the sporting blood of youth. If I cannot share the bed of roses, I can at least fatten on the smell. I would have to be compelled to tell the major what a rank fraud and unsurpassed liar his supposed nephew is. So good a liar that he even imposed upon me. Of course I thought you were the real nephew, and it horrifies me to know that you are a fraud. But, remember, silence is golden. If you feel any inclination of getting fussy, remember that I am a lawyer, and that I can prove I took your claim in good faith. Also, the Southerners are notoriously hot-tempered, deplorably addicted to firearms, and I don't think you would look a pretty sight if you happened to get shot full of buttonholes.”
The letter was unsigned, typewritten, and on plain paper. But Garrison knew whom it was from. It was the eminent lawyer's way not to place damaging evidence in the hands of a prospective enemy.
“This means blackmail,” commented Garrison, carefully replacing the letter in its envelope. “And it serves me right. I wonder do I look silly. I must; for people take me for a fool.”