A favorable reply from Mr. Archibald Andrews had now become a question of vital importance to his cousin, who very impatiently awaited its arrival.  It came at last.  Mr. Andrews had died rather suddenly at Bombay a short time before my letter arrived there, after executing in triplicate a will, of which one of the copies was forwarded to me.  By this instrument his property—­about thirty-five thousand pounds, the greatest portion of which had been remitted from time to time for investment in the British funds—­was disposed of as follows:—­Five thousand pounds to his cousin Jesse Andrews, for the purpose of educating and maintaining Archibald Andrews, the testator’s godson, till he should have attained the age of twentyone, and the whole of the remaining thirty thousand pounds to be then paid over to Archibald with accumulated interest.  In the event, however, of the death of his godson, the entire property was devised to another more distant and wealthier cousin, Mr. Newton, and his son Charles, on precisely similar conditions, with the exception that an annuity of seventy pounds, payable to Jesse Andrews and his wife during their lives, was charged upon it.

Two letters were dispatched the same evening—­one to the fortunate cousin, Mr. Newton, who lived within what was then known as the twopenny post delivery, and another to Mr. Jesse Andrews, who had taken up his temporary abode in a cottage near St. Alban’s, Hertfordshire.  These missives informed both gentlemen of the arrival of the Indian mail, and the, to them, important dispatches it contained.

Mr. Newton was early at the office on the following morning, and perused the will with huge content.  He was really quite sorry, though, for poor Cousin Jesse:  the loss of his son was a sad stroke, much worse than this of a fortune which he might have expected to follow as a matter of course.  And the annuity, Mr. Newton thoughtfully observed, was, after all, no contemptible provision for two persons, without family, and of modest requirements.

A very different scene was enacted when, late in the evening, and just as I was about to leave the office, Mr. Jesse Andrews rushed in, white as a sheet, haggard, and wild with passion.  “What devil’s fables are these you write me?” he, burst forth the instant he had gained the threshold of the room.  “How dare you,” he went on, almost shrieking with fury—­“how dare you attempt to palm off these accursed lies on me?  Archy rich—­rich—­and I—.  But it is a lie!—­an infernal device got up to torture me—­to drive me wild, distracted—­mad!” The excited man literally foamed with rage, and so astonished was I, that it was a minute or two before I could speak or move.

At last I rose, closed the door, (for the clerks in the outer office were hearers and witnesses of this outbreak,) and led the way to an inner and more private apartment.  “Come with me, Mr. Andrews,” I said, “and let us talk this matter calmly over.”