Part 40 (1/2)

”I don't know what else you can call it,” persisted Maurice. ”He is going to try to get possession of some property that don't belong to him.”

”I don't believe it.”

”He knows of a rich gentleman of the same name, and he has forged a paper, and is trying to make out that he is his nephew, though it is well known that the nephew died years ago.”

”Is that his reason for going to St. Louis?” asked Bessie, interested.

”Yes.”

”How do you know?--did he tell you?”

”I have the best authority for my statements,” said Maurice, who, for reasons known to the reader, did not like to tell how he gained the information; ”but I am not at liberty to say more.”

”You are very mysterious.”

”What I have told you is the truth. If you don't call it robbery, I do.”

”All I have got to say is, that if Gilbert claims to be anybody's nephew, I have no doubt he is. He wouldn't forge a paper for anything.”

”That's where you and I don't agree.”

”I think it's rather mean of you, Maurice Walton, to come here to slander a friend.”

”He isn't my friend. Perhaps he is yours.”

”You are right there,” said Bessie, firmly. ”He is my friend.”

”Perhaps, when he gets that fortune, you'll marry him?” said Maurice, sarcastically.

”He hasn't asked me yet,” said Bessie, blus.h.i.+ng.

This was too much for Maurice. He began to see that Bessie liked Gilbert more than he suspected, and that, by his blundering, he had only helped matters along. He sulkily bade his cousin good-night, and, returning home, bethought himself of his promise to Mr. Grey, and, though it was late, sat down and wrote him a letter.

CHAPTER XXVII.

JAMES GREY'S RESIDENCE.

About a mile from the bank of the Mississippi River, in the small town of Clayton, stood a handsome house. It was on a commanding site, and could be seen by the travelers bound up the river, from the decks of the large river-boats. It stood in lonely grandeur, with no other houses very near, and those that were within a respectful distance from it were far inferior. The occupant might be judged to be, in his neighborhood, a person of some consideration.

This was the mansion of James Grey, already introduced to our readers.

What motives had led him to pitch his tent in such a spot, can only be conjectured. He came thither directly from the city of Cincinnati, having lived in a hotel near by while he hurried the erection of this house. He came thither with his son, (his wife was dead), and had lived there ever since, though, from time to time, he absented himself on a trip to St. Louis, or, in rarer instances, Cincinnati. It is not unlikely that, knowing himself to be guilty of a fraudulent appropriation of his nephew's property, he had chosen to withdraw from the busy world, and plant himself in this comparatively obscure place, where he was not likely to be visited by any one cognizant of the manner in which he obtained his money.

Indeed, until his visit to New York, three years before, he had not supposed there was any one living so cognizant. He had seen a rumor that the vessel in which Jacob and his young charge went out to Australia was wrecked, and he imagined, or rather hoped, and so persuaded himself, that his dangerous nephew and his guilty accomplice were dead. But his recognition of the boy who blacked his boots on the steps of the Astor House undeceived him as to this point. Still, it seemed altogether unlikely that the boy would ever become aware of his ident.i.ty.

”If he does,” thought James Grey, ”he is not likely to find me here on the banks of the Mississippi, fifteen hundred miles away.”

According to the doctrine of probabilities, he was doubtless correct.

It was not likely, but then events often bid defiance to the probabilities, and such was the case now.