The Talleyrand Maxim | Page 6

his private address, and one to his chambers.
They're both in that book. It's six o'clock, isn't it?--he might be at his
chambers yet, but he may have gone home. I'll write both
messages--you put the addresses on, and get the wire off--we must have
him down here as soon as possible."
"One address is 53x, Pump Court; the other's 96, Cloburn Square,"
remarked Pratt consulting the book. "There's an express from King's
Cross at 8.15 which gets here midnight."
"Oh, it would do if he came down first thing in the morning--leave it to
him," said Eldrick. "I say, Pratt, do you think an inquest will be
necessary?"
Pratt had not thought of that--he began to think. And while he was
thinking, the doctor whom he had summoned came in. He looked at the
dead man, asked the clerk a few questions, and was apparently satisfied.
"I don't think there's any need for an inquest," he said in reply to
Eldrick. "I knew the old man very well--he was much feebler than he
would admit. The exertion of coming up these stairs of yours, and the
coughing brought on by the fog outside--that was quite enough. Of
course, the death will have to be reported in the usual way, but I have
no hesitation in giving a certificate. You've let the Town Hall people
know? Well, the body had better be removed to his rooms--we must
send over and tell his housekeeper. He'd no relations in the town, had
he?"
"Only one in the world that he ever mentioned--his grandson--a young
barrister in London," answered Eldrick. "We've just been wiring to him.
Here, Pratt, you take these messages now, and get them off. Then we'll
see about making all arrangements. By-the-by," he added, as Pratt
moved towards the door, "you don't know what--what he came to see

me about?"
"Haven't the remotest idea, sir," answered Pratt, readily and glibly. "He
died--just as I've told you--before he could tell me anything."
He went downstairs, and out into the street, and away to the General
Post Office, only conscious of one thing, only concerned about one
thing--that he was now the sole possessor of a great secret. The
opportunity which he had so often longed for had come. And as he
hurried along through the gathering fog he repeated and repeated a
fragment of the recent conversation between the man who was now
dead, and himself--who remained very much alive.
"You haven't shown it to anybody else?" Pratt had asked.
"Neither shown it to anybody, nor mentioned it to a soul," Antony
Bartle had answered. So, in all that great town of Barford, he, Linford
Pratt, he, alone out of a quarter of a million people, knew--what? The
magnitude of what he knew not only amazed but exhilarated him.
There were such possibilities for himself in that knowledge. He wanted
to be alone, to think out those possibilities; to reckon up what they
came to. Of one thing he was already certain--they should be, must be,
turned to his own advantage.
It was past eight o'clock before Pratt was able to go home to his
lodgings. His landlady, meeting him in the hall, hoped that his dinner
would not be spoiled: Pratt, who relied greatly on his dinner as his one
great meal of the day, replied that he fervently hoped it wasn't, but that
if it was it couldn't be helped, this time. For once he was thinking of
something else than his dinner--as for his engagement for that evening,
he had already thrown it over: he wanted to give all his energies and
thoughts and time to his secret. Nevertheless, it was characteristic of
him that he washed, changed his clothes, ate his dinner, and even
glanced over the evening newspaper before he turned to the real
business which was already deep in his brain. But at last, when the
maid had cleared away the dinner things, and he was alone in his
sitting-room, and had lighted his pipe, and mixed himself a drop of
whisky-and-water--the only indulgence in such things that he allowed

himself within the twenty-four hours--he drew John Mallathorpe's will
from his pocket, and read it carefully three times. And then he began to
think, closely and steadily.
First of all, the will was a good will. Nothing could upset it. It was
absolutely valid. It was not couched in the terms which a solicitor
would have employed, but it clearly and plainly expressed John
Mallathorpe's intentions and meanings in respect to the disposal of his
property. Nothing could be clearer. The properly appointed trustees
were to realize his estate. They were to distribute it according to his
specified instructions. It was all as plain as a pikestaff. Pratt, who was a
good lawyer, knew what the Probate