“The canting rogues,” he murmured as he went back to his museum. “The canting rogues!”
He thrust his hands, in a gesture of anger and disgust, deep into his jacket-pockets. His knuckles came against the crumpled letter. He turned faint and clung to the newel-post on the landing for support. The smaller treachery coming close before his eyes had for the time eclipsed the greater.
“My God,” he said, “is all the world against me?”
Unfortunately there was a thunderbolt or two yet to fall.
CHAPTER V
To my nephew Ephraim for his soul’s good I bequeath my cellar of wine which I adjure him to drink with care, thought, diligence, and appreciation, being convinced that a sound judge of wine is, or is on the way to becoming what my nephew is not, a judge of men and affairs.”
Quixtus stared at the ironical words written in Mathew Quixtus’s sharp precise handwriting, and turned with a grey face to the lawyer who had pointed them out.
“Is that the only reference to me in the will, Mr. Henslow?” he asked.
“Unfortunately, yes, Dr. Quixtus. You can see for yourself.” He handed Quixtus the document.
Mathew Quixtus had bequeathed large sums of money to charities, smaller sums to old servants, the wine to Ephraim, and the residue of his estate to a Quixtus unknown to Ephraim, save by hearsay, who had settled thirty years before in New York. Even Tommy Burgrave, with whom he had been on good terms, was not mentioned. But he had quarrelled years before with his niece, Tommy’s mother, for making an impecunious marriage, and, to do him justice, had never promised the boy anything. The will was dated a few weeks back, and had been witnessed by the butler and the coachman.