He couldn't suddenly spring five million dollars on her and
pretend that he had forgotten all about it till then.
Of course, he could invent an imaginary uncle or something, and
massacre him during the honeymoon. Something in that. He pictured
the thing in his mind. Breakfast: Elizabeth doling out the
scrambled eggs. 'What's the matter, Bill? Why did you exclaim like
that? Is there some bad news in the letter you are reading?'
'Oh, it's nothing--only my Uncle John's died and left me five
million dollars.'
The scene worked out so well that his mind became a little above
itself. It suggested developments of serpentine craftiness. Why
not get Jerry Nichols to write him a letter about his Uncle John
and the five millions? Jerry liked doing that sort of thing. He
would do it like a shot, and chuck in a lot of legal words to make
it sound right. It began to be clear to Bill that any move he
took--except full confession, at which he jibbed--was going to
involve Jerry Nichols as an ally; and this discovery had a
soothing effect on him. It made him feel that the responsibility
had been shifted. He couldn't do anything till he had consulted
Jerry, so there was no use in worrying. And, being one of those
rare persons who can cease worrying instantly when they have
convinced themselves that it is useless, he dismissed the entire
problem from his mind and returned to the more congenial
occupation of thinking of Elizabeth.
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