He paused and looked at Gosford.

“My father was convinced that the South would finally set up an independent government, but he hoped a war might not follow.  He believed that if this new government were immediately recognized by Great Britain, the North would accept the inevitable and there would be no bloodshed.  My father went to England with this scheme.  He met Mr. Gosford somewhere — on the ship, I think.  And Mr. Gosford succeeded in convincing my father that if he had a sum of money he could win over certain powerful persons in the English Government, and so pave the way to an immediate recognition of the Southern Republic by Great Britain.  He followed my father home and hung about him, and so finally got his will.  My father was careful; he wrote nothing; Mr. Gosford wrote nothing; there is no evidence of this plan; but my father told me, and it is true.”

My father stopped by the table and lifted his great shoulders.

“And so,” he said, “Peyton Marshall imagined a plan like that, and left its execution to a Mr. Gosford!”

The Englishman put down his pen and addressed my father.

“I would advise you, sir, to require a little proof for your conclusions.  This is a very pretty story, but it is prefaced by an admission of no evidence, and it comes as a special pleading for a criminal act.  Now, sir, if I chose, if the bequest required it, I could give a further explanation, with more substance; of moneys borrowed by the decedent in his travels and to be returned to me.  But the will, sir, stands for itself, as Mr. Lewis will assure you.”

Young Marshall looked anxiously at the lawyer.

“Is that the law, sir?”

“It is the law of Virginia,” said Lewis, “that a will by a competent testator, drawn in form, requires no collateral explanation to support it.”

My father seemed brought up in a cul-de-sac.  His face was tense and disturbed.  He stood by the table; and now, as by accident, he put out his hand and took up the Japanese crystal supported by the necks of the three bronze storks.  He appeared unconscious of the act, for he was in deep reflection.  Then, as though the weight in his hand drew his attention, he glanced at the thing.  Something about it struck him, for his manner changed.  He spread the will out on the table and began to move the crystal over it, his face close to the glass.  Presently his hand stopped, and he stood stooped over, staring into the Oriental crystal, like those practicers of black art who predict events from what they pretend to see in these spheres of glass.

Mr. Gosford, sitting at his ease, in victory, regarded my father with a supercilious, ironical smile.

“Sir,” he said, “are you, by chance, a fortuneteller?”

“A misfortune-teller,” replied my father, his face still held above the crystal.  “I see here a misfortune to Mr. Anthony Gosford.  I predict, from what I see, that he will release this bequest of moneys to Peyton Marshall’s son.”