The Talleyrand Maxim | Page 3

to. Up to the time of John Mallathorpe's death,
they had lived in very humble fashion--lived, indeed, on an allowance
from their well-to-do kinsman--for Richard Mallathorpe had been as

much of a waster as his brother had been of a money-getter. And there
was no withstanding their claim when it was finally decided that John
Mallathorpe had died intestate--no withstanding that, at any rate, of the
nephew and niece. The nephew had taken all the real estate: he and his
sister had shared the personal property. And for some months they and
their mother had been safely installed at Normandale Grange, and in
full possession of the dead man's wealth and business.
All this flashed through Linford Pratt's mind in a few seconds--he knew
all the story: he had often thought of the extraordinary good fortune of
those young people. To be living on charity one week--and the next to
be legal possessors of thousands a year!--oh, if only such luck would
come his way!
"Of course!" he repeated, looking thoughtfully at the old bookseller.
"Not the sort of thing one does forget in a hurry, Mr. Bartle. What of
it?"
Antony Bartle leaned back in his easy chair and chuckled--something,
some idea, seemed to be affording him amusement.
"I'm eighty years old," he remarked. "No, I'm more, to be exact. I shall
be eighty-two come February. When you've lived as long as that, young
Mr. Pratt, you'll know that this life is a game of topsy-turvy--to some
folks, at any rate. Just so!"
"You didn't come here to tell me that, Mr. Bartle," said Pratt. He was an
essentially practical young man who dined at half-past six every
evening, having lunched on no more than bread-and-cheese and a glass
of ale, and he also had his evenings well mapped out. "I know that
already, sir."
"Aye, aye, but you'll know more of it later on," replied Bartle.
"Well--you know, too, no doubt, that the late John Mallathorpe was a
bit--only a bit--of a book-collector; collected books and pamphlets
relating to this district?"
"I've heard of it," answered the clerk.

"He had that collection in his private room at the mill," continued the
old bookseller, "and when the new folks took hold, I persuaded them to
sell it to me. There wasn't such a lot--maybe a hundred volumes
altogether--but I wanted what there was. And as they were of no
interest to them, they sold 'em. That's some months ago. I put all the
books in a corner--and I never really examined them until this very
afternoon. Then--by this afternoon's post--I got a letter from a Barford
man who's now out in America. He wanted to know if I could supply
him with a nice copy of Hopkinson's History of Barford. I knew there
was one in that Mallathorpe collection, so I got it out, and examined it.
And in the pocket inside, in which there's a map, I found--what d'ye
think?"
"Couldn't say," replied Pratt. He was still thinking of his dinner, and of
an important engagement to follow it, and he had not the least idea that
old Antony Bartle was going to tell him anything very important.
"Letters? Bank-notes? Something of that sort?"
The old bookseller leaned nearer, across the corner of the desk, until his
queer, wrinkled face was almost close to Pratt's sharp, youthful one.
Again he lifted the claw-like finger: again he tapped the clerk's arm.
"I found John Mallathorpe's will!" he whispered. "His--will!"
Linford Pratt jumped out of his chair. For a second he stared in
speechless amazement at the old man; then he plunged his hands deep
into his trousers' pockets, opened his mouth, and let out a sudden
exclamation.
"No!" he said. "No! John Mallathorpe's--will? His--will!"
"Made the very day on which he died," answered Bartle, nodding
emphatically.
"Queer, wasn't it? He might have had some--premonition, eh?"
Pratt sat down again.

"Where is it?" he asked.
"Here in my pocket," replied the old bookseller, tapping his rusty coat.
"Oh, it's all right, I assure you. All duly made out, signed, and
witnessed. Everything in order, I know!--because a long, a very long
time ago, I was like you, an attorney's clerk. I've drafted many a will,
and witnessed many a will, in my time. I've read this, every word of
it--it's all right. Nothing can upset it."
"Let's see it," said Pratt, eagerly.
"Well--I've no objection--I know you, of course," answered Bartle, "but
I'd rather show it first to Mr. Eldrick. Couldn't you telephone up to his
house and ask him to run back here?"
"Certainly," replied Pratt. "He mayn't be there, though. But I can try.
You haven't shown it to anybody else?"
"Neither shown it to anybody, nor mentioned it to a soul," said Bartle.
"I tell you it's not much more