A Cousin’s Conspiracy is a Webnovel created by Horatio Alger.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
Bolton noted it down in his memorandum-book, and soon after the train ran into the station at Forty-second Street.
There was no time to lose. Bolton made inquiries and obtained the name of a successful lawyer, with an office at 182 Na.s.sau Street. He did not wait till the next day, but made a call that same evening at his house on Lexington Avenue.
Mr. Norcross, the lawyer, entered the parlor with Bolton’s card in his hand, and a puzzled expression on his face.
“Have I ever met you before, Mr. Bolton?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“Please state your business.”
“I should like to enter your office. I am a lawyer with fifteen years’
experience.”
“I should hardly think so, considering the strange proposal you are making.”
“I am quite aware that it seems so, but I can make it worth your while.”
“How?”
“By bringing you business. I can put in your hands now a will case involving an estate of fifty thousand dollars, and further on probably a much more important case.”
“You seem to be a hustler.”
“I am.”
“Where has your professional life been spent?” asked Norcross.
“At Elmira. Now I wish to remove to this city. It will give me a larger and more profitable field.”
“Give me some idea of the case you say you can put in my hands.”
Bolton did so. His terse and crisp statement–for he was a man of ability–interested the lawyer, and disposed him favorably toward the matter.
The result of the interview was that he engaged Bolton at a small salary and a commission on business brought to the office for a period of three months.
“Thank you,” said Bolton as he rose to go. “You will not regret this step.”
The next morning Bolton brought his railroad acquaintance to the office, and Mr. Norcross formally undertook his case.
“I think we shall win,” he said. “It is an aggravated case of undue influence. Mr. Bolton will from time to time communicate to you the steps we have taken.”
It is unnecessary to go into details. It is enough to say that the will was broken, and a goodly sum found its way to the coffers of Lawyer Norcross.
By this time Benjamin Bolton had established himself in the favor of his employer, who at the end of three months made a new and much more advantageous arrangement. Bolton had not yet taken any steps in Ernest’s case, but he now felt that the time had come to do so. He wrote to the postmaster at Oak Forks, inquiring if he knew a boy named Ernest Ray, but learned in reply that Ernest had left the place some months before, and had not since been heard from.
CHAPTER x.x.xIII
ANSWERING THE ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT
The advertis.e.m.e.nt for Ernest in a St. Louis daily paper came about in this way.
Bolton was in the habit of inquiring from time to time of Western clients if they were acquainted with any persons bearing the name Ray. One gentleman, who frequently visited St. Louis, answered, “Yes, I know a boy named Ray.”
“Tell me all you know about him,” said Bolton eagerly.
“I was staying at the Southern Hotel last winter,” answered Mr. Windham, “when my attention was called to a bright-looking newsboy who sold the evening papers outside. I was so attracted by him that I inquired his name. He said it was Ray, and that he was alone in the world.”
“What was his first name?”
“I can’t recall. I am not sure that I heard it.”
“Was it Ernest?”
“I cannot speak with any certainty.”
“How old did the boy appear to be?”
“About sixteen.”
“That would have been the age of Dudley Ray’s son,” said Bolton to himself.
“I suppose you didn’t learn where the boy lived?”
“No.”
This was all the information Mr. Windham was able to impart, but Bolton felt that it was possibly of importance. It was the first clue he had been able to obtain.
That Dudley Ray’s son should be forced by dire necessity to sell newspapers was not improbable. Bolton therefore inserted the advertis.e.m.e.nt already mentioned.
A few days later he received two letters post-marked St. Louis.
He opened them with a thrill of excitement. He felt that he was on the verge of making an important discovery.
One letter was addressed in a schoolboy hand, and ran thus:
Dear Sir: I saw your advertis.e.m.e.nt in one of the morning papers. I hope it means me. My name is not Ernest, but it may have been changed by some people with whom I lived in Nebraska. I am sixteen years old, and I am obliged to earn my living selling papers. My father died when I was a baby, and my mother three years later. I am alone in the world, and am having a hard time. I suppose you wouldn’t advertise for me unless you had some good news for me. You may send your answer to this letter to the Southern Hotel. The clerk is a friend of mine, and he says he will save it for me.
Yours respectfully, Arthur Ray.
“That isn’t the boy,” said Bolton, laying down the letter in disappointment. “The name is different, and, besides, the writer says that his father died when he was a baby. Of course that settles the question.
He is a different boy.”
He opened the second letter, hoping that it might be more satisfactory.