THE IMPOSTOR
"HE WAS mad," said the doctor.
"I drew up his will, to his dictation, the very day before—well, the day before it happened," said the lawyer, "and I insist that Philip Vallejo was as sane as you or I."
"Yes—the day before—"
"But you must admit the act was premeditated. Now that we regard them in the after-light, the terms of the will prove that he carefully planned the act. And, in addition, there is this document he left with me." The lawyer indicated a sealed envelope that lay upon the library table. "If he was mad when he shot himself, then he was mad when he dictated his will, when he handed me this envelope. Mad? Nonsense!"
"He must have been," muttered the doctor.
"What made him do it?" exclaimed the lawyer. "The cruelty of it! He must have known that to kill himself at such a time meant the death of his wife. The poor infant—"
"She did not learn of his suicide," stated the doctor. "I never told her."
"But—I thought the shock—her condition—"
"Her physical condition was excellent. No, it was not childbirth that took Mary's life."
"Then in heaven's name what was it?" cried the lawyer.
"It was—oh, it was stark insanity. Both of them were mad."
"What? Mary, too? Oh, come, come, Doctor!"
"It was madness—or it was the other thing," said the doctor, slowly. "And the other thing is impossible. It is quite impossible."
"What other thing?"
"Insanity is oftentimes difficult of detection, or of analysis when detected," was the evasive answer. "A mind may possess a well hidden insane spot, a single quirk, and be otherwise quite rational."
"You imply that Philip possessed such a spot? And Mary, too?"
"Yes. Or else—but the other thing is impossible."
"What other thing?"
The doctor was slow to answer. He leaned over the table that separated the chairs of the two men, and, with deliberation, chose a cigar from the humidor. He bit its end, and struck a match. When the stick flamed, his features, hitherto indistinct in the shaded light of the lawyer's study, were momentarily illumined. The lawyer saw marked agitation in a face usually serenely immobile. His companion was profoundly disturbed about something, and the lawyer was deeply impressed by this fact.
"There is no other thing," the doctor said, finally. "My use of the phrase was a slip of the tongue. In my opinion Philip and Mary were the victims of a singular insanity, of a terrible delusion their twisted minds held in common. You will learn about it later. But now—" He pointed to the envelope. "—let us get along with the business of this meeting."
The lawyer picked up the envelope and read aloud the inscription that covered its face: "To be opened after the death of Philip Vallejo, by the Executors of his Estate." Before he broke the seal, he held up the envelope to the other's view. "Of course, you recognize Philip's handwriting?" he said.
The doctor nodded. "Naturally. I, as well as you, was a guardian." The ghost of a smile hovered for an instant at the corners of his mouth. "There was a time when Philip's handwriting greeted me pretty regularly in my morning mail. When the young scamp was in college. He had the cheek to tell me once that I was easier to work than you." He leaned forward, and scrutinized the writing. "Philip's hand, without doubt. And yet—"
"And yet a little different from his college hand, eh?" commented the lawyer. "Bolder, firmer, more character in it, is it not so? How marriage changed the boy! Do you recall how worried we were when we learned that Mary had accepted him, and how sorry we were for her? He was such a lovable boy—and so weak. The pleasure-loving Californian blood, the old Spanish strain—an inherent weakness, I always thought. But the wedding—or perhaps it was that terrible experience of his wedding day—seemed to make a man of him quite suddenly. When he came out of the hospital, he seemed to me to have actually borrowed the positive, self-assertive character of that chum of his."
"Graves?" demanded the doctor, quickly.
"Yes, Chadwick Graves, 'Polly' Graves."
"Do you mean that Philip seemed to you to resemble young Graves, after the accident?"
"Resemble him? Of course not. Our dark, slender Spanish grandee resemble 'Polly' Graves! Do you remember what Graves looked like—squat, parrot-nosed, red-headed? Resemble him—well, hardly."
"I do not mean a physical resemblance," explained the doctor. "But a resemblance of—well, personality. You said—"
"I used young Graves to illustrate a point, nothing more. Because he possessed in such superlative degree those qualities of decision and firmness that Philip so conspicuously lacked before his marriage and so conspicuously owned afterward. Poor Graves. I never liked the young man, but I thought his death a great pity. I never encountered a stronger will. He had a career ahead of him. That boy knew what he wanted, and got it."
"He wanted Mary," said the doctor.
"Well, that was a pardonable failure, surely. 'Polly' Graves could hardly compete with our Philip in affairs of the heart. Philip's good looks and romantic tongue would outweigh in any girl's eyes the solid but invisible virtues Graves possessed. But Graves was a good loser; Philip's victory did not disturb their friendship."
The doctor nodded, musingly. "Yes, he was best man that day," he said. The lawyer waited a moment for further comment; then he forced his finger beneath the flap of the envelope.
"Just a moment before you break the seal," the doctor suddenly exclaimed. "Tell me, did Philip ever mention the accident to you?"
"No, and I never mentioned it to him," was the prompt response. "Philip appeared to avoid the subject. I respected his reticence, because I knew how close was their friendship, and how keenly he must feel his friend's death. In fact, I suspected Philip of brooding over the fatality."
