“Yes — but make a note that it is only a conjecture. The name is a uncommon one. I presume that this was the Luskin in question.”
WHILE Roberts was busy with the files, Reeves Lockwood began to speak in meditative fashion. His thin lips formed a dry smile upon his tight-skinned countenance.
“A miserly fellow, Windrop Raleigh,” he mused. “In death as in life. Always ready to give aid to his numerous relations. Aid so stingy that it bore the marks of reluctant charity. I think that most of his kin must have known him by reputation. Otherwise most of them would have been in to see me regarding their supposed legacies.”
“We have dealt with ten relatives, sir,” reminded Roberts.
“Yes,” agreed Lockwood, “and all but two have rejected the terms of Windrop Raleigh’s offer. The trust fund will go begging, eventually. How many more have the right to share in it, Roberts?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
“In addition to the ten?”
“Yes, I should say in addition to the eleven. A distant cousin called two days ago. When I recited the terms, he left in disgust. He did not even ask to talk to you. Here is his name — Charles Parkins. I have crossed it from the list.”
As Reeves Lockwood smiled and nodded, a rap sounded on the door. A stenographer entered in response to the lawyer’s order to enter.
“A gentleman named Stokes Corvin is here,” the girl informed. “He is a legatee under the Windrop Raleigh will. Shall I have him wait to see Mr. Roberts?”
“Another trust fund pauper,” smiled Lockwood, grimly. “Is his name on the list, Roberts?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the young man. “He is listed as living in London. A second cousin of Windrop Raleigh’s third wife.”
“I hope,” decided Lockwood, “that he has not made the trip across the Atlantic expressly to learn the terms of the legacy to which he is entitled. I believe I shall see him personally. Ask him to step into this office, Miss Manning. You remain here, Roberts.”
The stenographer left and returned with the visitor. Reeves Lockwood raised his eyebrows as he surveyed the man who entered. The visitor was a firm-faced chap who appeared to be about thirty-five years of age. His clean-cut countenance made an immediate impression.
“You are Stokes Corvin?” questioned the lawyer.
“Yes.” The visitor’s quiet voice bore an English accent. “I am Stokes Corvin. You, sir, I suppose, are Reeves Lockwood?”
“I am,” returned the lawyer. “Kindly be seated, Mr. Corvin.”
The visitor took a chair.
“You are here,” remarked Lockwood, “to learn about the legacy to which you are entitled by the terms of Windrop Raleigh’s will?”
“Precisely,” replied Corvin. “You were the barrister who represented my kinsman, were you not?”
“I was,” affirmed Lockwood, dryly, “and I now have charge of his estate. You were named as a legatee.”
“And what,” questioned Corvin, “did Windrop Raleigh bequeath me?”
“Very little,” stated Lockwood, reaching for a paper which Roberts held out to him. “So little, Mr. Corvin, and under such provisos that I doubt that it will interest you.”
ADJUSTING a pair of glasses to his nose, the old attorney studied the paper before him. His expression showed that he was merely making a resume of terms that he already knew.
“Windrop Raleigh,” stated Lockwood, “left the major portion of his estate to his only son, Jarvis Raleigh. This one son was the child of Windrop Raleigh’s second marriage. All of Windrop Raleigh’s three wives are dead. The second one — mother of Jarvis Raleigh — was divorced and had custody of her child. Hence Windrop Raleigh left his wealth to a son whom he had seldom seen.
“All other relations — including those of all three wives — are entitled to legacies under the terms of a trust fund which Windrop Raleigh provided for that purpose. You, Mr. Corvin, are included in that group.”
“And the terms?” questioned Stokes Corvin.
“They are quite simple,” assured Lockwood. “To all such relations who have no active means of livelihood, Windrop Raleigh has offered refuge in his home near the town of Glenwood. Jarvis Raleigh is master of the estate called Montgard. The relations who are dependent upon the trust fund must live there under Jarvis Raleigh’s rule.
“They’re entitled to food and lodging; also to receive the sum of five dollars a month during their term of residence at Montgard. While they live there, they must not engage in any form of gainful occupation; nor may they leave the house wherein they live. To violate either rule would mean an immediate loss of further protection. Moreover, they must recognize Jarvis Raleigh as sole judge in questions of behavior. Those, Mr. Corvin, are the terms.”
“So Windrop Raleigh made those terms!” exclaimed Stokes Corvin, lighting a cigarette from his case. “The old curmudgeon! Did he regard his kinsmen as an army of paupers? One pound a month! What a miserable pittance!”
“I agree with your opinion, Mr. Corvin,” declared Reeves Lockwood, quietly, as he handed the paper back to Roberts. “Nevertheless, as the administrator of the trust fund, I must abide by its terms.”
“I hope,” declared Stokes Corvin, speaking gravely as he arose, “that none of the kinfolk have been so destitute as to accept these miserly terms.”
“Unfortunately,” responded Lockwood, “two of the legatees have been forced through circumstances to take residence at Montgard.”
“Old folk, I suppose?”
“No. One is Sidney Richland, an eccentric cousin of Jarvis Raleigh. The other is also a cousin — a very attractive young lady named Barbara Wyldram.”
“A blood relation of mine?” inquired Corvin.
“No,” returned Lockwood. “She is a relative of Windrop Raleigh’s first wife. You are a relative of the third wife. Miss Wyldram has no parents. She was engaged to a young man who died in an automobile accident.
“After all, Mr. Corvin, Montgard is an interesting old place. One can dwell there quite apart from affairs of the world. I fancy that may be the reason why two persons have chosen to accept the terms of Windrop Raleigh’s will.”
Reeves Lockwood reached over and drew a large photograph from the file which Roberts held. He passed it to Stokes Corvin. The picture was a large edition of the post card which Mallet Haverly had received from Luskin.
STOKES CORVIN stared at the photograph with interest. The cone-shaped turrets were a fascinating picture with the surrounding trees of the large estate.
“Right jolly!” commented Corvin. “It reminds me of an old place that I used to visit in Surrey. Where is this town of Glenwood where Montgard is situated?”
“Less than one hundred miles from New York,” returned Lockwood.
“I should like to visit the place while I am here in the states,” decided Corvin. “I came here purely on a pleasure trip. The matter of legacy was merely a minor matter that I intended to look up.”
“You would not be welcomed at Montgard,” warned Lockwood. “Jarvis Raleigh is quite as eccentric a person as was his father. He resents all intrusion. In fact, he seems to dislike it when I pay necessary visits to his estate.”
“And yet,” echoed Stokes Corvin, “he would be forced to admit me if I chose to demand the terms of my paltry legacy.”
“Yes,” agreed Lockwood. “So long as you live, Mr. Corvin, you are entitled to residence in Montgard. Jarvis Raleigh cannot deny you that privilege — I say privilege if you choose to call it such.”
A broad grin appeared upon Stokes Corvin’s face. The man from England stamped out his fresh-lit cigarette and brought his fist down upon the desk with a resounding thump.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “This smacks of adventure, Mr. Lockwood. As I understand it, any kinsman of Old Windrop Raleigh’s can occupy Montgard as a guest, with a pound a month as stipend.”