A CUCKOO IN THE NEST

Paul looked from the fresh-colored woman who spoke so smoothly and so firmly to the apish lawyer hunched in his chair with a sphinx-like look on his wrinkled face. For the moment, so taken aback was he by this astounding announcement, that he could not speak. The younger woman stared at him with her hard blue eyes, and a smile played round her full lips. The mother also looked at him in an engaging way, as though she rather admired his youthful comeliness in spite of his well-brushed, shabby apparel.

"I don't know what you mean," said Beecot at length, "Mr. Pash?"

The lawyer aroused himself to make a concise statement of the case. "So far as I understand," he said in his nervous, irritable way, "these ladies claim to be the wife and daughter of Lemuel Krill, whom we knew as Aaron Norman."

"And I think by his real name also," said the elder woman in her deep, smooth contralto voice, and with the display of an admirable set of teeth. "The bills advertising the reward, and stating the fact of the murder, bore my late husband's real name."

"Norman was not your husband, madam," cried Paul, indignantly.

"I agree with you, sir. Lemuel Krill was my husband. I saw in the newspapers, which penetrate even into the quiet little Hants village I live in, that Aaron Norman had been murdered. I never thought he was the man who had left me more than twenty years ago with an only child to bring up. But the bills offering the reward assured me that Norman and Krill are one and the same man. Therefore," she drew herself up and looked piercingly at the young man, "I have come to see after the property. I understand from the papers that my daughter is an heiress to millions."

"Not millions," said Pash, hastily. "The newspapers have exaggerated the amount. Five thousand a year, madam, and it is left to Sylvia."

"Who is Sylvia?" asked Mrs. Krill, in the words of Shakespeare's song.

"She is the daughter of Mr. Norman," said Paul, quickly, "and is engaged to marry me."

Mrs. Krill's eyes travelled over his shabby suit from head to foot, and then back again from foot to head. She glanced sideways at her companion, and the girl laughed in a hard, contemptuous manner. "I fear you will be disappointed in losing a rich wife, sir," said the elder woman, sweetly.

"I have not lost the money yet," replied Paul, hotly. "Not that I care for the money."

"Of course not," put in Mrs. Krill, ironically, with another look at his dress.

"But I do care for Sylvia Norman—"

"With whom I have nothing to do."

"She is your husband's daughter."

"But not mine. This is my daughter, Maud—the legal daughter of Lemuel and myself," she added meaningly.

"Good heavens, madam," cried Beecot, his face turning white, "what do you mean?"

Mrs. Krill raised her thick white eyebrows, and shrugged her plump shoulders, and made a graceful motion with her white, be-ringed hand. "Is there any need for me to explain?" she said calmly.

"I think there is every need," cried Beecot, sharply. "I shall not allow Miss Norman to lose her fortune or—"

"Or lose it yourself, sir. I quite understand. Nevertheless, I am assured that the law of the land will protect, through me, my daughter's rights. She leaves it in my hands."

"Yes," said the girl, in a voice as full and rich and soft as her smooth-faced mother, "I leave it in her hands."

Paul sat down and concealed his face with a groan. He was thinking not so much of the loss of the money, although that was a consideration, as of the shame Sylvia would feel at her position. Then a gleam of hope darted into his mind. "Mr. Norman was married to Sylvia's mother under his own name. You can't prove the marriage void."

"I have no wish to. When did this marriage take place?"

Beecot looked at the lawyer, who replied. "Twenty-two years ago," and he gave the date.

Mrs. Krill fished in a black morocco bag she carried and brought out a shabby blue envelope. "I thought this might be needed," she said, passing it to Pash. "You will find there my marriage certificate. I became the wife of Lemuel Krill thirty years ago. And, as I am still living, I fear the later marriage—" She smiled blandly and shrugged her shoulders again. "Poor girl!" she said with covert insolence.

"Sylvia does not need your pity," cried Beecot, stung by the insinuation.

"Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Krill, sadly, and with the look of a treacherous cat, "I fear she needs the pity of all right-thinking people. Many would speak harshly of her, seeing what she is, but my troubles have taught me charity. I repeat that I am sorry for the girl."

"And again I say there is no need," rejoined Paul, throwing back his head; "and you forget, madam, there is a will."

Mrs. Krill's fresh color turned to a dull white, and her hard eyes shot fire. "A will," she said slowly. "I shall dispute the will if it is not in my favor. I am the widow of this man and I claim full justice. Besides," she went on, wetting her full lips with her tongue, "I understood from the newspapers that the money was left to Mr. Krill's daughter."

"Certainly. To Sylvia Krill."

"Norman, sir. She has no right to any other name. But I really do not see why I should explain myself to you, sir. If you choose to give this girl your name you will be doing a good act. At present the poor creature is—nobody." She let the last word drop from her lips slowly, so as to give Paul its full sting.

Beecot said nothing. He could not dispute what she said. If this woman could prove the marriage of thirty years ago, then Krill, or Norman as he called himself, had committed bigamy, and, in the hard eyes of the law, Sylvia was nobody's child. And that the marriage could be proved Paul saw well enough from the looks of the lawyer, who was studying the certificate which he had drawn from the shabby blue envelope. "Then the will—the money is left to Sylvia," he said with obstinacy. "I shall defend her rights."

"Of course," said Mrs. Krill, significantly. "I understand that a wife with five thousand—"

"I would marry Sylvia without a penny."

"Indeed, sir, that is the only way in which you can marry her. If you like I shall allow her twenty pounds for a trousseau."

Paul rose and flung back his head again. "You have not got the money yet, madam," he said defiantly.

Not at all disturbed, Mrs. Krill smiled her eternal smile. "I am here to get it. There is a will, you say," she added, turning to Pash. "And I understand from this gentleman," she indicated Beecot slightly, "that the money is left to Mr. Krill's daughter. Does he name Maud or Sylvia?"

Pash slapped down the certificate irritably. "He names no one. The will is a hasty document badly worded, and simply leaves all the testator died possessed of to—my daughter."

"Which of course means Maud here. I congratulate you, dear," she said, turning to the girl, who looked happy and flushed. "Your father has made up to us both for his cruelty and desertion."

Seeing that there was nothing to be said, Paul went to the door. But there his common sense left him and he made a valedictory speech. "I know that Mr. Krill left the money to Sylvia."

"Oh, no," said the widow, "to his daughter, as I understand the wording of the will runs. In that case this nameless girl has nothing."

"Pash!" cried Beecot, turning despairingly to the little solicitor.

The old man shook his head and sucked in his cheeks. "I am sorry, Mr. Beecot," said he, in a pitying tone, "but as the will stands the money must certainly go to the child born in wedlock. I have the certificate here," he laid his monkey paw on it, "but of course I shall make inquiries."

"By all means," said Mrs. Krill, graciously. "My daughter and myself have lived for many years in Christchurch, Hants. We keep the inn there—not the principal inn, but a small public-house on the outskirts of the village. It will be a change for us both to come into five thousand a year after such penury. Of course, Mr. Pash, you will act for my daughter and myself."

"Mr. Pash acts for Sylvia," cried Paul, still lingering at the door. The lawyer was on the horns of a dilemma. "If what Mrs. Krill says is true I can't dispute the facts," he said irritably, "and I am unwilling to give up the business. Prove to me, ma'am, that you are the lawful widow of my late client, and that this is my late esteemed client's lawful daughter, and I will act for you."

Mrs. Krill's ample bosom rose and fell and her eyes glittered triumphantly. She cast a victorious glance at Beecot. But that young man was looking at the solicitor. "Rats leave the sinking ship," said he, bitterly; "you will not prosper, Pash."

"Everyone prospers who protects the widow and the orphan," said Pash, in a pious tone, and so disgusted Paul that he closed the door with a bang and went out. Tray was playing chuck-farthing at the door and keeping Mr. Grexon Hay from coming in.

"You there, Beecot?" said this gentleman, coldly. "I wish you would tell this brat to let me enter."

"Brat yourself y' toff," cried Tray, pocketing his money. "Ain't I a-doin' as my master tells me? He's engaged with two pretty women"—he leered in a way which made Paul long to box his ears—"so I don't spile sport. You've got tired of them, Mr. Beecot?"

"How do you know Mr. Beecot's name?" asked Hay, calmly.

"Lor', sir. Didn't you and me pull him from under the wheels?"

"Oh," said Grexon, suddenly enlightened, "were you the boy? Since you have washed your face I didn't recognize you. Well, Beecot, you look disturbed."

"I have reason to. And since you and this boy pulled me from under the wheels of the motor," said Paul, glancing from one to the other, "I should like to know what became of the brooch."

"I'm sure I don't know," said Grexon, quietly. "We talked of this before. I gave it as my opinion, if you remember, that it was picked up in the street by the late Aaron Norman and was used to seal his mouth. At least that is the only way in which I can conjecture you lost it."

"You never saw it drop from my pocket?"

"I should have picked it up and returned it had I seen it," said Hay, fixing his eye-glass. "Perhaps this boy saw it."

"Saw what?" asked Tray, who was listening with both his large ears.

"An old blue-velvet case with a brooch inside," said Beecot, quickly.

Tray shook his head vigorously. "If I'd seen it I' ha' nicked it," he said impudently; "catch me givin' it back t' y', Mr. Beecot. There's a cove I knows—a fence that is—as 'ud give me lots fur it. Lor'," said Tray, with deep disappointment, "to think as that dropped out of your pocket and I never grabbed it. Wot crewel luck—ho!" and he spat.

Paul looked hard at the boy, who met his gaze innocently enough. Apparently he spoke in all seriousness, and really lamented the lost chance of gaining a piece of jewellery to make money out of. Moreover, had he stolen the brooch, he would hardly have talked so openly of the fence he alluded to. Hay the young man could not suspect, as there was positively no reason why he should steal so comparatively trifling an article. Sharper as he was, Hay flew at higher game, and certainly would not waste his time, or risk his liberty, in stealing what would bring him in only a few shillings.

"Why don't you ask the detectives to search for the brooch," said Hay, smiling.

"It is in the detective's possession," said Paul, sullenly; "but we want to know how it came to pin Norman's lips together."

"I can't imagine, unless he picked it up. If lost at all it must have been lost in the street the old man lived in, and you told me he wanted the brooch badly."

"But he wasn't on the spot?"

"Wot," cried Tray, suddenly, "the one-eyed cove? Ho, yuss, but warn't he? Why, when they was a-gitin' the ambulance, an' the peelers wos a-crowdin' round, he come dancing like billeo out of his shorp."

Beecot thought this was strange, as he understood from Deborah and Bart and Sylvia that Norman had known nothing of the accident at the time. Then again Norman himself had not mentioned it when he paid that visit to the hospital within a few hours of his death. "I don't think that's true," he said to Tray sharply.

"Oh, cuss it," said that young gentleman, "wot d' I care. Th' ole cove come an' danced in the mud, and then he gits int' his shorp again. Trew is trew, saiy wot y' like, mister—ho."

Beecot turned his back on the boy. After all, he was not worth arguing with, and a liar by instinct. Still, in this case he might have spoken the truth. Norman might have appeared on the scene of the accident and have picked up the brooch. Paul thought he would tell Hurd this, and, meantime, held out his hand to Hay. In spite of the bad character he had heard of that young man, he saw no reason why he should not be civil to him, until he found him out. Meantime, he was on his guard.

"One moment," said Grexon, grasping the outstretched hand. "I have something to say to you," and he walked a little way with Paul. "I am going in to see Pash on business which means a little money to me. I was the unfortunate cause of your accident, Beecot, so I think you might accept twenty pounds or so from me."

"No, thank you all the same," said Paul gratefully, yet with a certain amount of caution. "I can struggle along. After all, it was an accident."

"A very unfortunate one," said Hay, more heartily than usual. "I shall never forgive myself. Is your arm all right?"

"Oh, much better. I'll be quite cured in a week or so."

"And meantime how do you live?"

"I manage to get along," replied Paul, reservedly. He did not wish to reveal the nakedness of the land to such a doubtful acquaintance.

"You are a hard-hearted sort of chap," said Hay coldly, but rather annoyed at his friendly advances being flouted. "Well, then, if you won't accept a loan, let me help you in another way. Come and dine at my rooms. I have a young publisher coming also, and if you meet him he will be able to do something for you. He's under obligations to me, and you may be certain I'll use all my influence in your favor. Come now—next Tuesday—that's a week off—you can't have any engagement at such a long notice."

Paul smiled. "I never do have any engagements," he said with his boyish smile, "thank you. I'll look in if I can. But I am in trouble, Grexon—very great trouble."

"You shouldn't be," said Hay, smiling. "I know well enough why you will not accept my loan. The papers say Sylvia, your Dulcinea, has inherited a million. You are to marry her. Unless," said Hay, suddenly, "this access of wealth has turned her head and she has thrown you over. Is she that sort of girl?"

"No," said Paul quietly, "she is as true to me as I am to her. But you are mistaken as to the million. It is five thousand a year, and she may not even inherit that."

"What do you mean?"

"I am not at liberty to say. But with regard to your dinner," added Paul, hastily changing the conversation, "I'll come if I can get my dress-suit out of pawn."

"Then I count on you," said Hay, blandly, "though you will not let me help you to obtain the suit. However, this publisher will do a lot for you. By Jove, what a good-looking girl."

He said this under his breath. Miss Maud Krill appeared on the doorstep where the two young men stood and stumbled against Grexon in passing. His hat was off at once, and he apologized profusely. Miss Krill, who seemed a young woman of few words, as Paul thought from her silence in the office, smiled and bowed, but passed on, without saying a "thank you." Mrs. Krill followed, escorted by the treacherous Pash who was all smiles and hand-washings and bows. Apparently he was quite convinced that the widow's story was true, and Paul felt sick at the news he would have to tell Sylvia. Pash saw the young man, and meeting his indignant eyes darted back into his office like a rabbit into its burrow. The widow sailed out in her calm, serene way, without a look at either Paul or his companion. Yet the young man had an instinct that she saw them both.

"That's the mother I expect," said Hay, putting his glass firmly into his eye; "a handsome pair. Gad, Paul, that young woman—eh?"

"Perhaps you'd like to marry her," said Paul, bitterly.

Hay drew himself up stiffly. "I don't marry stray young women I see on the street, however attractive," he said in his cold voice. "I don't know either of these ladies."

"Pash will introduce you if you make it worth his while."

"Why the deuce should I," retorted Hay, staring.

"Well," said Beecot, impulsively telling the whole of the misfortune that had befallen him, "that is the wife and that is the daughter of Aaron Norman, alias Krill. The daughter inherits five thousand a year, so marry her and be happy."

"But your Dulcinea?" asked Grexon, dropping his eye-glass in amazement.

"She has me and poverty," said Paul, turning away. Nor could the quiet call of Hay make him stop. But at the end of the street he looked back, and saw Grexon entering the office of the lawyer. If Hay was the man Hurd said he was, Paul guessed that he would inquire about the heiress and marry her too, if her banking account was large and safe.

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