David Poindexter's Disappearance, and Other Tales by Julian Hawthorne
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sideboard in the dining-room; he poured out and drank two glasses in
succession. This done, he put on his hat, and left the house with his portmanteau in his hand, and ten minutes later he had intercepted the London coach, and was bowling along on his way to the city. There was a dramatic instinct in David, as in many eloquent men of impressionable temperament, which caused him every now and then to look upon all that was occurring as a sort of play, and to resolve to act his part in a telling and picturesque manner. On that Saturday afternoon he had an interview with the late Mr. Lambert's lawyers, and they were struck by his calm, lofty, and indifferent bearing. He seemed to regard worldly prosperity as a thing beneath him, yet to feel in a half-impatient way the responsibility which the control of wealth forced upon him. "It is my purpose not to allow this legacy to interfere permanently with my devotion to my higher duties," he remarked, "but I have taken measures to enable myself to place these affairs upon a fixed and convenient footing. I presume," he added, fixing his eyes steadily upon his interlocutor, "that you have thoroughly investigated the possibility of there being any claimant nearer than myself?" "No such claimant could exist," the lawyer replied, "unless the late Mr. Lambert had married and had issue." "Is there, then, any reason to suppose that he contemplated the contingency that has happened?" "If he bestowed any thought at all upon the subject, that contingency could hardly have failed to present itself to his mind," the lawyer |
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