"Not a thing. I probably won't be bothered by them until it's time for the
next blackmail payment."
"BY the way," Bruce murmured. "Did you know there was a bad fire up the shore, last night? I saw the glare from my window. This morning's paper says it
was the old Carruthers place. Owned by a couple of Wall Street brokers, I believe."
Arnold Dixon nodded. He wasn't much interested in news of the fire. "I hope the owners escaped," he said, dully.
"Luckily, they did," Bruce said in a low tone. "According to the morning paper, there was no one home at the time of the fire except a tramp who was seen at an upper window before the floors collapsed. The two brokers are apparently out West, traveling. The fire was obviously an arson job. Perhaps it's just as well the tramp was burned to death."
"Perhaps. Now about this will -" Dixon's jaw set itself in stubborn lines.
"Why do you object to me making it in your favor?"
Bruce forced himself to smile.
"You forget, father. I've only been home three months. I - I still remember the occasion of my leaving and the perfect right you had to cut me off." His face became paler. "I - I want you to be quite sure that I've reformed before you decide to will everything over in my favor."
Arnold Dixon laid his hand gently on the young man's arm.
"I don't want you ever again to refer to the unfortunate past," he said.
"That's a closed chapter in both our lives. Thank God, you've come back to me in my old age! I'm satisfied you've reformed. No son could have been more thoughtful and kind than you have been in the past three months.
"I have two excellent reasons for my will decision," Dixon continued,
"regardless of my own fear. I want the money to stay in the family and not be dissipated by bequests to charity. You're in love with Edith Allen, my son.
Are
you not?"
"Yes. I am."
"I want you to marry her. She's a sweet, lovely girl. You're the last of the direct Dixon line. I want the name perpetuated. But more than that, once the fortune is legally willed to you, I have a feeling that the attempts on my life will cease. Are you convinced now that I'm doing the wise thing."
Bruce shrugged. "Whatever you decide suits me," he said, huskily. There was perspiration on his face. He wiped it away surreptitiously, as his father strode to the telephone and summoned William Timothy to the mansion.
It was the son's turn now to become restive. He walked impatiently up and down the room while he waited for the arrival of the lawyer.
WILLIAM TIMOTHY came in with a brusque, springy step. It was evident that the news over the wire had disturbed him. He gave a quick glance toward the table where Bruce sat in shadow, but he was unable to catch the son's eyes.
Bruce had picked up a magazine and was pretending to read it. He took no part in the angry discussion that followed.
"You can't do this, Arnold," Timothy spluttered. "It's ridiculous!"
"Ridiculous, hey?" Dixon rejoined. "I've a right to will my own money where I like, haven't I?"
"Of course! But things have been so unsettled. You've been threatened with
death. There's been a bold and amazing robbery right in your own home!"
Again he stared covertly toward Bruce, but was unable to find any change of expression on the young man's face.
In the end, Arnold Dixon settled the whole argument with a stubborn exclamation.
"Very well, William. If you won't attend to your legal duty, I'll hire a lawyer who will!"
Timothy shrugged. "In that case, there's nothing to do but sign the new document."
He drew a lengthy typewritten paper from his briefcase.
"This is an exact copy of the original will, the same as it was before Bruce left home and you - er - altered its provisions. I've dated it to-day.
It
leaves the house, your securities, your art collection, and every penny of your
private fortune to Bruce. Is that what you want?"
"That's what I want," Arnold Dixon said.
"Very well. Sign here. We'll need two witnesses. Bruce, will you witness this document?"
"Why not?" His voice was like ice.
He rose, watched his father affix his signature with a tremulous movement of the pen. Then Bruce signed his name without a quiver. Charles, the butler, hastily summoned, became the other witness.
Timothy, who was still angry at the way in which his advice had been disregarded, took his leave, refusing a glass of port which the old man offered
him as a peace gesture.
AS soon as the door closed behind the fuming lawyer, Arnold Dixon shivered. The quarrel had been a tax on his strength. Feebly, he said he'd go up-stairs and lie down.
Bruce read his magazine with unseeing eyes for perhaps a quarter of an hour. Then he summoned the butler, had him bring his hat and coat.
"I'm leaving for town," he said, softly. "You needn't tell my father about
this. Let him sleep. I may telephone him later, from town. If he should wake before I phone, tell him I had some important business that may clear up certain difficulties. Good day, Charles."
"Good day, sir."
Charles hurried to the window the moment he had closed the door behind his
employer's son. He was surprised to see that Bruce did not go back toward the garage. Instead, the young man walked along the gravel path for a few yards and
then turned off into the shrubbery. He seemed to be examining the grounds with peculiar interest.
After a while he vanished from view and Charles saw him no more, although he waited at the front window for a considerable time.
Frowning, the butler went to the rear of the house and continued to clean silver, from which duty he had been interrupted. Charles had been at his task for nearly an hour, when he chanced to glance through the curtained window of the pantry.
The garage was directly in his line of vision.
His jaw sagged as he saw a familiar figure skulking close to the garage entrance. The figure was inserting a key in the locked door. The door swung open swiftly. The man appeared to be hasty, anxious to avoid being seen. But Charles recognized the pale profile that was turned momentarily toward him.
It was Bruce Dixon! The young man who had left his father's house nearly an hour and a half earlier on the pretext that he was going to town!
Charles dropped the ornate knife he was cleaning. He ran instantly toward a side door that was concealed by a wing of the house from a direct view of the
garage. He slipped through the protecting bushes that lined the gravel drive.
A
moment later, he had reached the flank of the garage and was up on a box, trying to peer into the high side window above the level of his eyes.
By straining upward on his toes, Charles was able to look through the glass pane. He saw Bruce working busily with a shining steel instrument. The automobile he was working on was the small car that Arnold Dixon always used when he drove alone. And Bruce was deliberately tampering with the steering mechanism!
The sight unnerved the faithful butler. He gasped, rose higher on his toes
to see better and the box under his feet shifted and collapsed with a noisy crash as it broke under the butler's weight.
CHAPTER XIV
THE QUARRY ROAD
INSTANTLY, Charles turned to flee. He dived headlong for the protection of
the circling bushes, hoping to slide out of sight before Bruce could rush from the garage and intercept him.
But his hope was in vain. Charles was too old to compete in speed with the
long legs of the younger man. He had taken barely three steps when Bruce came racing from the garage and sprang in front of him.
The cry that bubbled on the butler's lips was cut short by a blow from Bruce. Dazed, barely conscious, he was lifted in a strong embrace and carried swiftly back into the garage.