“There’s nothing particularly diabolical in telling a young fellow with a brilliant career before him that you’re going to cut him out of your will.”
“Isn’t there?” said Quixtus, with an air of disappointment. “What then would you suggest?”
“First,” answered Vandermeer, “what do you think would be a fair price for a suggestion?” He regarded him with greedy eyes. “Would twenty pounds be out of the way?”
“I’ll give you twenty pounds,” said Quixtus.
Vandermeer drew in his breath quickly, as a man does who wins a bet at long odds.
“There are all sorts of things you can do. The obvious one would be to stop his allowance. But I take it you want something more artistic and subtle. Wait—let me think—” He covered his eyes with his hand for a moment. “Look. How will this do? It strikes me as infernally wicked. You say he is devoted to his art. Well, make him give it up——”
“Excellent! Excellent!” cried Quixtus. “But how?”
“Can you get him into any business office in the City?”
“Yes. My friend Griffiths of the Anthropological Society is secretary of the Star Assurance Coy. A word from me would get the boy into the office.”
“Good. Then tell him that unless he accepts this position within a month and promises never to touch a paint-brush again, he will not receive a penny from you either during your lifetime or after your death. In this way you will bring him up against an infernal temptation, and whichever way he decides he’ll be wretched. I call that a pretty scheme.”