Anthony Lyveden Part 45

Mr. Justice Molehill hastened away....

Ten minutes later the two men were seated before a comfortable fire, absorbed in each other's conversation.

"That will," said the Judge, "which you and I witnessed in 1914 has never been proved."

"That," said his guest, "is, I fear, my fault. At the present moment it's lying in a drawer of my writing-table at Rome."

"No?" cried his lordship, twittering.

Monseigneur Forest nodded.

"If you remember," he said, "after you and I had witnessed the old gentleman's signature, I took charge of it."

"That's right. You were going to take it to the British Consulate, to see if----"

"They'd stamp it. Exactly. Well, I was too late that day. I attended the next morning, and, after a little difficulty, they consented, for what it was worth, to put a seal on it. Then I went back to the hotel.

When I asked whether the testator was still alive, they told me he'd gone."

"Gone?" cried the Judge incredulously. "But the man was dying."

"Dying or not, he'd left for Paris that morning. To the amazement of the manager he had quietly walked into the office, asked for his bill, and ordered a cab to be sent for and his luggage to be brought down.

Apparently the doctor attending him had tried to protest, and had been sent away with a flea in his ear. I can only a.s.sume that the old fellow was subject to some violent malady, which comes and goes suddenly, one of whose attacks he has been warned will prove fatal."

"What an amazing thing!" said his lordship. "It never occurred to me that he would survive the night. However, as it happens, it doesn't affect the validity of that will. He's dead now. He died in 1917.

But the will that was proved and is lying at Somerset House was made in 1910."

"You mean to say that the will we witnessed supersedes it?"

"Undoubtedly."

The prelate covered his eyes.

"Dear me," he said. "Dear me. I blame myself very much. I should have sent the doc.u.ment after him, of course. His address was there. I quite intended to. But I had to leave for Vienna very suddenly upon the next day. Instead of the days I had expected, I was away for months. I only returned upon the eve of the explosion----"

"And, naturally, you forgot all about it. So did I. The merest accident brought the whole thing to my mind."

"Accidents all the way," said the priest.

The Judge smiled.

"It looks like it," he agreed. "To be short, I came across the man in whose favour our will was made. Such a nice-looking fellow--obviously without a penny. Earning his living as a servant. Lyveden, his name was--Anthony Lyveden. Don't let me raise your hopes. I've lost him again--utterly. But everything's happening in the right order. It was no good finding him just to make his mouth water."

"But the other will," said his guest. "What about that? Haven't its provisions been given effect to?"

"That," said Sir Giles, tapping him on the shoulder, "is the beauty of it. We're upsetting n.o.body. The other will leaves Lyveden every penny, _provided he becomes a Knight_."

"What an infamous condition!"

"There you have the story. Upon what he believes to be his deathbed, the old fellow repents his harshness. Recovered, our Pharaoh hardens his heart and lets the old will stand. 'The Devil was sick, the Devil a monk would be.'"

"_De mortuis_," said the prelate. "Besides, now we're going to canonize him, w.i.l.l.y nilly."

"With any luck," smiled the Judge. "Can you send for the doc.u.ment?"

Ruefully Monseigneur Forest shook his head.

"I must go for it," he said. "I must return at once. It's the least I can do. 'Without a penny,' you said? Poor fellow. I was going into the country to-morrow, to stay with my niece. But that must wait."

"We haven't found him yet," said his lordship.

"That may be the deuce of a business. Of course, now our hands are free. With the will located, we can advertise. I think, perhaps, though, we'd better wait till we've produced it to the solicitors."

The priest agreed heartily. Then he counted upon his fingers. After a moment's calculation--

"I'm not as young as I was," he said, "but, if all goes well, I'll meet you here a week from to-day with the will in my pocket."

Tea and the comparison of notes upon matters of moment, other than the fortunes of Anthony, occupied another half-hour, when, after exchanging addresses, the two men parted, pledged to meet again in seven days'

time.

The Judge walked home thoughtfully.

The queer little play was almost over. The strange human doc.u.ment which it had pleased him to piece together was almost whole. He found himself wondering why he had shown such solicitude. After all, who was this Anthony Lyveden? Why had he been at such pains to set this beggar upon horseback? Perhaps Fate had meant him to walk.... If she had, she was playing a curious game. Thanks to her efforts, the fellow's toe was practically in the stirrup. And he himself--Lyveden--had no idea of it....

Mr. Justice Molehill smiled.

It was really an entertaining little play. Until it was time for his entrance, the leading character would not even know that he was taking part. There he was----

The smile died suddenly, as the reflection lost its savour.

Where? Where was the leading character? Supposing, when the time came, he could not be found.... Into what a dismal fiasco the play would turn. All his interest would have been thrown away. His solicitors would have been investigating a lost cause. Forest would have been sent packing back to Rome upon a fool's errand....

Mr. Justice Molehill gnawed at his lower lip.

There was no doubt about it. For some reason which, for all his prudence, he could not perceive, this Hecuba was a great deal to him.

His bewilderment may be excused. The reason was out of his ken. The truth is, there was a ghost to be laid, and Fate had chosen him for the job. Judge or corner-boy, the man himself did not matter. The lot falling upon him, he had become in this adventure the particular agent of Fate.

King or herdsman, jester or sage, croupier or harridan--lend her what personality you please--Fate hath the reins and so the laugh of the universe. Ever at its rump, her p.r.i.c.ks are insensible alike to kicks or kisses. Folly, sceptre or rake in hand, she stands or sprawls upon Eternity, bending the ages to her whim. And we, poor things, at once her instruments and b.u.t.ts, stumble about her business, thinking it ours, setting each other up, bringing each other low, spoking each other's wheels and all the time, wise in our own conceit, basking in the sunshine of our fine free-will, like lack-brains toasting their shanks before an empty cage.

A Napoleon is still-born; a Medici never survives his swaddling-clothes. Into the tiny graves are huddled a million destinies. The s.e.xton's shovel smothers up a Renaissance; soon the daisies will blow above History. Those eyebrows are lifted, that lip curls, and two fair homes go down in sorrow. This man misses a train, to travel with Fortune in the one that follows. A horse is beaten on the post, and the frantic clerk who has backed it goes for five years to gaol. Five years.... What are five years to Fate? A cable-operator nods over the Wheatstone, and a king loses his crown. A witness hesitates, and an estate pa.s.ses to the b.a.s.t.a.r.d and to his heirs for ever....

And so the game goes on.

The living grains of sand go slipping and sliding into place in that gigantic hour-gla.s.s, striving and fretting in their vanity, but always impotently falling towards that thin neck, where days are numbered and the punctilious turnstile ushers to those mysterious marches where there is no more Time.

Look at them here.

Judge and maiden jostling a prelate--one upon either side--each of them in a toss about the same Anthony Lyveden, yet neither aware of the other's existence, and all four falling, while they fret, first into place and presently, one by one, towards that thin neck where days are numbered....