TO THE UTTERMOST FARTHING.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 1038, 19 August 1911, Page 2

TO THE UTTERMOST FARTHING.

CHAPTER J. It's the best news I ever heard!" cried Moorfield. "My hearty congratulations'. May you live long and die happy, and all that sort of thing, old fellow!" "Thanks," said Severance quietly. "It must have knocked you off your base just at first. Seems almost too good to be true, doesn't it?" "It does," assented Severance, still quietly. "Alter the ups and downs you have had in these suicidal old barracks — more down than up, old fellow, eh? — though your brains are worth twice mino any day. It seems confoundedly queer that you should have got more kicks than coppers until tho last, year or two." "Luck, I suppose," said Severance t'hruggir.g his shoulders. "Well, perhaps so. But, although for the last twelve months you've really been getting on like a house aire, this turn of the wheel must make you feel"fairly satisfied, eh?" "Yes, I, suppose it does." " " .• t "Supose!" Moorfield echoed,, laugh-' ing. "Well, Isholjta'tnuikso;" •; Severance, did not answer. He-sat thoughtfully puffing at. his pipe, and staring upward at the faint strip of saffron sky visible from the open window —barely visible so narrow and confined was the dismal court of tall, old houses, each one divided into dismal sets of apartments like his own. Tom Moorfield, bright eyed, alert, and clieerful, a man so constitutionally unable lo perceive the frowns of fortune that she had soon begun to smile upon him in spite of herself, took "his cigar from his "lips and looked with a graver scrutiny than usual ait his friend. Often as'they met, he had never before really noted that the ,black hair upon Severance's temples was streaked with gray. Yet he knew that the difference of six years in their ages was on his side. . The struggle which was now over —oyer even without the wonderful stroke of luck Upon which he had been so heartily congratulating his friend—the common struggle of a briefless lawyer with a small income and no friends or influence in the right places—must hiave been a pretty tough one while it had lasted. Far harder had it been than his own. Besides, it was not Severance's way to take all things lightly. Well, it was over, and things were rosy enough now. With characteristic optimism he- came back to. that, and shook off his momentary gravity. "I suppose there's no doubt that it's all right, old fellow ? No fear, I mean, of the old man changing his mind?" "I should ,say no from what I have always understood of him." "H'm! He's done it once, though," suggested Moorfield, doubtfully^ "Meaning in disinheriting his nephew, and putting me in his shoes? True enough! But there was ample reason, you may be sure." "Fellow's a wrong un, is he?" Still looking at the yellow strip of sky. Severance, shrugged his-shoulders again. ; ',:/' ' '., „" v "I shoud .say iso, but I rather infer than know it. I never saw the man.' in my.ise, but the letter I told yi«u of said very : plainly that there was 1 very good reason for the altering of the will." .. . "■' ,"■ ; "Who wrote the letter- ? The old gentleman?" "No, a man named Bathell, a lawyer—the family man of business, I conclude," Moorfield took a few.reflective puffs at his cigar. "I wish the old fellow could have willed you something else beside the money—-the title." "Quite impossible. That, if nothing, else, must''go to Derek Willoughby." "Is that the nephew?" ' 'Yes; I thought I explained that he, is the only son of Sir Bernard's only brother. I'm a cousin on the sis,ter's side, half a, dozen times removed —more, very likely. I have never tried to trace it out." "You owe your good luck- to your name, I should say, Severance." "Possibly, and I may be the nearest male connection after WiUoughby, but •I;don' even know that." - ,v''■'■;,"You never saw, the'old man ? Never applied to him for aid?" ' ' "Notl." . . ~,': "H'jn! in youa- place I fancy that I should have given my godfather a f chance of showing his generosity, if !he had any. Sir Bernard never marred, did he?" "Never." "Lives all alone at Redbourne, I suppose?" "I supose so. I, don't fancy that Willoughby ever lived there regularly, even before they quarrelled. Wait, though." With a change of expression in his composed face Severance turned in 'his chair; and put down the cigar. ''l believe, now.that you men o ion it, that I've heard of a girl there." "A girl P" "I fancy .so. No, T am sure of it, though I couldn't for my life say who told me. But she'.s..there,":right. <>n'ough. She's a covjsin.'?' : "Near?" asked Moorfield. "No, no!" Severance's abstract JI look was gohe> and he pulled his mous- } tache thoughtfully. "She is about as far removed as.l am, I think. I sei>m to have heard that the mother was left a widow—husband killed in Burma or somewhere—and Sir Bernard vook in. her and her daughter! He ha 3 his soft spots. I dare say. I'll tell yo-j' her name in a moment. Clare—dure Throckmorton." "Clare Throckmorton I Ah!- Ro-

(OUR NEW SERIAL.)

By CARL SWERDNA, Author of "A Mere Ceremony."

j mantic name!" Moorfield commented criticallv. "Does the will provide for |her?" "Upon my word, I don't know! If she and her mother are poor, I should say that it probably provides for thetn both." "You dbn T t know!" Moorfield exclaimed. He was so surprised that he passed the second sentence by. "Why I understood that it had been sent 10 you?" "So it has. It came with Bethe'l's letter." And you haven't read it?" "I looked at it, but T didn't go into all its provi-ions. The letter itse,. gave me all the important information —that on the one condition that I book the family name Redbourne was willrel to me with the bulk of Sir Bernard's money; in fact, that I virtually stood in tho place that used .to be Willoughby's." "In all but the prospective title," added Moorfield, nodding—'the only thing that.he couldn't will away?" ' • "Yes, nothing is hasabsolute power over every stiqk and stoneVand coin.'.'.,>./. • . .. /' "Lucky for you," Moorfield remark- | ed, with a/ laugh. "Egad, Willoughby must love you, Severance!" '"'He's welcome." ' '"! "No doubt, since you come out so decidedly on top! I wonder how long you'll be kept waiting," he addel, after .a pause. "As you never saw Sir Bernard in your life one need not mind speculating, I suppose. Very old, isn't he?" '*. "Well over iseventy, arid has been a semi-invalid for years. From a sentence in Betheil's letter I conclude that his present state is critical. Probably it will not bo long," Severance answered quietly. He spoke with no pretence of an emotion which he did not feel—whioh, indeed, it was impossible that he could feel., A rigid honesty of thought, and deed, and word, lay at the root of liis character. "Probably not," Moorfield assentled. "Well, old fellow, once more I heartily congratulate you. Y/ra're an j ambitious man. I know, and it must > have been precious rough luck eating J out your heart because of failure after failure for the past seven or eight years. It must have been all the worse since you've got the grit for success in you. It's a pity that this business didn't come about before you had almost got the ball at your foot, as I reckon you have now. The usual way, though, isn't it?" ' • "The Fates are humorous," said Severance grimly. "Uncommonly good at kicking a fellow when he is down, and helping him up when he doesn't heed it!" the other, agreed. He glanced again at the grave,.dark face, with the threads of gray hair on the broad temples, and as he rose he put his hand on his friend's shoulder in a manner that expressed deep feeling. Tho attachment of the two men, dating from their college days, was beyond the common.' But so far the luck had gone persistently in favour of the elder and less able man, who,, among other things, 'had married a rich and pretty wife„fiye. years before, and was as happy in his. domestic as he was fortunate in his business life. Both by nature and by habit Severance was reserved, and the strain of his past struggle had been too bitter to be dilated upon, its memory was gall to him;, yet, and perhaps always would "be. "Must you be going?" he asked. "I think so. Lucy will be wondering what's become of me if I am late, although she knew that! was going to give you a brief call. She'll be almost as pleased to hear about this business as I am. By the way, how lohg have you known it yourself ?" "Thanks—my best regards to her. How long is it sineel knew ? Just a week." "So long? Yet you never dropped me "a line about it!" Moorfield cried, with undisguised reproach. "My dear fellow, you were away and bothered .enough over that case of yours, I know," Severance answered; "The news could keep well enough. I didn't want to up»et you, and I know what an excitable.fellowyou are." "Well, I suppose you are right." the other said, putting on his overcoat. "By the way, what did you do with the will?" •"Do with it.?. -It is there." He nodded towards a large, brasshandled, sloping-topped bureau that filled that reces3 between the wall and the fireplace. Moorfield, following tho nod, looked dubious. "There ? Do you think it is safe ?'' "Safe?, Why not? The drawer is locked, the keys are always in my pocket, and no one knows that it is there but myself. Why shouldn't it i be safe?" "Oh, it's,all right, no doubt! But an ordinary drawer and lock aren't ' much of a protection. By Jove, if it were to take wings, you'd look very queer." Severance laughed, took a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked the' second door of the bureau, and drew out a packet. (To foe continued.)