but it was useless.  I then bribed the servant sent to bring the attorney to report that he was out of town, and when that proved of no avail, I sent for Richard Hobson, a penniless shyster, whose lack of means and lack of principle I believed would render him an easy tool in my hands.  He came; I was waiting to receive him, and we entered into compact, I little dreaming I was setting loose on my track a veritable hell-hound!  The will was drawn and executed, Hobson and one Alexander McPherson, an old friend of my father’s, signing as witnesses.  Within twenty-four hours of its execution, Richard Hobson was richer by several hundred pounds, and the will was in my possession.  Two days later, I had a false telegram sent to our place, summoning McPherson to his home in Scotland.  He left at once, before my father’s burial, and his death, which occurred a few weeks later, removed the last obstacle in the way of carrying my plans into execution.  My brother at that time was in Australia, but in what part of the country I did not know, nor did I try to ascertain.  My constant fear was that he might in some way — though by what means I could not imagine — get some knowledge of the will and return to set up a claim to the estate.  As soon as possible, therefore, notwithstanding the protests of my attorneys, I sold the estate and came to America.

“Concerning the years that followed, it is needless to go into detail; they brought me wealth, influence, power, all that I had craved, but little of happiness.  Even when there came tidings of my brother’s death at sea, and I felt that at last my title to the estate was secure, I had little enjoyment in its possession.  Richard Hobson had already begun his black-mailing schemes, his demands growing more frequent and exorbitant with each succeeding year.  Through him, also, the woman who had wrecked my brother’s life received some inkling of my secret, and through this knowledge, slight as it was, gained enough of a hold over me that life was becoming an intolerable burden.  Through all these years, however, I kept the will in my possession.  Even after hearing of the death of my brother, a cowardly, half-superstitious dread kept me from destroying it, though doubtless I would have done so soon after making my own will had I not been prevented by circumstances unforeseen, which I will now state.

“The events which I am about to relate are stamped upon my brain as though by fire; they have haunted me day and night for the past five months.  On the seventh of July last, I made and executed my will in favor of my namesake, Hugh Mainwaring, and on the following day — his birthday and mine — he was to be declared my heir.  It was past eleven o’clock on the night of that day when I retired to my private library, and it was fully an hour later when, having dismissed my secretary, I finally found myself alone, as I supposed, for the night.  My thoughts were far from pleasant.  I had just