Cecil Armsbury returned to find Martin Havelock standing just within the doorway of the living room.
The old man clapped his nephew on the shoulder.
“Wait here, Martin,” he suggested. “I have some papers that I wish to give you. They will interest you. I must go upstairs to obtain them.” Armsbury’s eyes noted the glass upon the table. “I can take my medicine when I return. I shall not be gone more than ten minutes.”
The old man turned and walked from the room. Martin Havelock’s lips became suave as his ears heard the fading footsteps. The young man’s face had resumed its shrewd expression. From an idler, Martin Havelock had become a schemer. Again, he was that keen, sharp-visaged individual who had stood in the light of New York’s Rialto.
WITH long, stealthy strides, Martin Havelock crossed the living room. His eyes were fiendish as they gazed upon the bottle of white tablets. His hands were steady as they uncorked the bottle and removed three of the large white pills. One by one, the treacherous nephew dropped the tablets into the glass.
Then, as an afterthought, he added a fourth and finally a fifth.
Twisted, leering lips showed him to be a man who contemplated murder. Carefully, Martin Havelock corked the bottle. He placed it beside the glass. He noted that it still contained many pills. The fact that more had been added to the tumbler of medicine would not be recognized.
Three might have been sufficient. Five was better. Dissolved pills could not be counted. Calhoun would be to blame for this; and Jason Thunig, Cecil Armsbury’s attorney, would be a testifier to the fact that the servant must have erred.
Martin Havelock’s smile was evil. The young man watched the tablets rapidly dissolve. The water was clearing almost to its original color. Murder was in the making — murder that would be classed as accident.
Still standing by the table, Martin Havelock drew a cigarette from his pocket. He placed it between his evil lips. His expression began to change, turning mild for the part that he was to play upon his uncle’s return.
Then came a sudden rigidity. Martin Havelock’s changing appearance froze. His face, half fiendish, half friendly, was caught in the midst of its transformation. A chuckle from the doorway. Instinctively, Havelock wheeled.
With staring eyes, the young man gazed into the muzzle of a glistening revolver. The gun was in the hand of Cecil Armsbury. The stoop-shouldered old man, his lips spread in a gloating grin, had returned with stealthy tread.
Cecil Armsbury had trapped his treacherous nephew in the act of preparing certain murder!
CHAPTER II. CROOKS OF A KIND
MARTIN HAVELOCK made no move as he stared into the muzzle of his uncle’s gun. The young man knew that he was caught; and in the face beyond that revolver, he saw no mercy. Cecil Armsbury, like his nephew, had undergone a change. The placid face of the old man had become the countenance of a fiend.
Again the chuckle. Havelock paled. He thought that he had previously deceived his uncle. Now he knew that he was the one who had been fooled. There was something monstrous in Armsbury’s evil gloat.
“Sit down.”
The command was accompanied by a gesture of the revolver. Martin Havelock obeyed. Cecil Armsbury pocketed his revolver, taking it for granted that his nephew was unarmed. The old man strode across the room, showing unusual agility in his paces. With a cackling laugh, he picked up the glass of medicine and drank it at a single draught. He set down the glass with a thump.
“Harmless,” he chuckled. “White tablets of sugar. A little bit of by-play performed by Calhoun at my order. It deceived you — as I expected. Well — what do you have to say, Martin?”
“Nothing very much,” returned the nephew, in a tone which showed a resumption of his indifferent attitude. “I suppose this changes the will. That’s all.”
“The law can deal with you.”
“Hardly. You have drunk the evidence.”
“A clever thought.” The old man chuckled. “Well, Martin, I have put you to the test. You played for thirty thousand dollars — perhaps forty — and you lost.”
Martin Havelock merely smiled sourly and shrugged his shoulders. He did not feel concerned by his uncle’s malicious glare. Cecil Armsbury laughed.
“Thirty thousand. Quite a loss, Martin. Not much to a man who owns large interests in Hidalgo silver mines, perhaps. But to a man who merely pretends to own such wealth—”
Martin Havelock stared at his uncle; paused. The old man drew a large envelope from his pocket.
“This contains the documents that I promised to show you,” he declared. “I had them in my pocket all the while. They contain proof that Martin Havelock owns no mining interests in Mexico. They prove, moreover, that Martin Havelock has not been living in Mexico. They tell a great deal, in addition, regarding the affairs of a certain international crook who is known as Duke Larrin—”
With a furious cry of interruption, Martin Havelock was on his feet. His spring toward Cecil Armsbury was stopped only by the old man’s quick action. Like a flash, Armsbury brought out his revolver and pointed it at his leaping nephew. Havelock halted six feet from the old man’s chair.
CECIL ARMSBURY cackled. He seemed to enjoy this turn of affairs. Martin Havelock, seeing the threat in his uncle’s eyes, retreated to his chair.
“Duke Larrin,” announced Cecil Armsbury. “That is the name you have been using. You are Duke Larrin — smooth crook who has worked in Paris, Berlin, Vienna, along the Riviera.
“Like most men who have turned to crime, you have spent all that you have made. Europe is no longer open to you. But you remembered that your old self — Martin Havelock — had an uncle. You thought that you might be my heir. You came to find out.
“Thirty thousand dollars! Bah! A paltry sum for a crook like Duke Larrin. I lost my respect for you when I saw you, as a vulture, hovering by to wait for me to die. That is why I put you to the test — to see if you would deal in murder.”
Martin Havelock stared as he heard these words. A new expression had appeared upon his uncle’s face — a look that showed a strange approval. Before the young man could voice a question, Cecil Armsbury spoke again.
“You were my heir,” declared the old man. “Thirty thousand dollars would some day have been yours — had you balked at the chance to murder me and lay the blame on someone else.
“But you made good in the test. You showed that murder was in your category of crime. You are my heir no longer, Martin. You will be my partner — an equal sharer in a sum that will exceed a million dollars!”
Armsbury’s face was gleaming. Martin Havelock wondered if his uncle had gone insane. The cunning look on the old man’s face might be that of a maniac; on the contrary, it showed amazing craft.
“To kill me, Martin,” resumed the old man, with a cackle, “would be folly. Your crime would rest upon you. Whatever you might reap would be lost. There are reasons. But to become my partner — ah, there lies opportunity.
“I have been awaiting your arrival from Mexico ever since I gained this information.” The old man tapped his envelope with his revolver. “For I had need of a partner of Duke Larrin’s caliber. I merely required a test of your nerve.”
With a gesture of new friendship, the old man placed both revolver and envelope upon the table. Each had been a threat — one of death; the other of exposure. Martin Havelock, however, ignored them. His uncle smiled approvingly.
“You are with me, Martin,” he stated.
“For half a million?” The young man laughed. “Sure thing. How did you find out that I was Duke Larrin?”