March 14, 191 8 
Land Sc Water 
17 
The Return : By Stacy Aumonier 
A Story in Two Parts — Part II 
To a struggling lower middle-class family there returns 
suddenly from South Africa an almost forgotten uncle. This 
Uncle Herbert is unexpectedly rich ; he takes pleasure in having 
his nephews and nieces and their families round him, and 
helps them with money in many ways. But he never talks of 
his own affairs or how he came by his wealth. It creates, 
privately, an uneasy feeling that the money is ill-gotten, more 
especially as their affairs, notwithstanding his help, go awry. 
This feeling grows stronger, they talk it over among themselves. 
I SUGGESTED that we should have a family meeting 
and discuss the best thing to do, and Albert agreed. 
But the meeting itself nearly ended in another 
tragedy. Albert dominated it. He said we must all 
go to Uncle, and say to him straight out : 
"Look here, this is all very well, but you've got to tell us 
how you made your money." 
And Christopher replied : 
" Yes, I daresay. And then he'll cut up rusty, and tell us 
all to go to hell, and go away. ., And then where will we be ? " 
Louie and I agreed with Albert, but all the rest backed 
Christopher's point of view, and the discussion became 
acrimonious and at times dangerous. W'e broke up without 
coming to any decision, but with Albert vehement that he 
was going the next day on his own responsibility to settle the 
matter. He and Christopher nesu-ly came to blows. 
We were never in a position to do more than speculate 
upon what the result of that interview would have been 
because it never took place. In the morning we heard that 
Uncle was dead. He had died the previous evening while 
receiving a visitor, suddenly of heart failure, at the verj' 
time when we were arguing about him. 
When we went round to the house, the servants told us 
that an elderly gentleman had called about nine o'clock. He 
gave the name of Josh. He looked like a seaman of some 
sort. Uncle Herbert had appeared dazed when he heard the 
name. He told them inra faint voice to show the stranger in. 
They were alone less than five minutes, when the stranger 
came out and called them in the hall. 
'.'Something queer has happened," was all he said. 
They found Uncle lying in a huddled heap by the chester- 
field. A. doctor was sent for, but he was dead. During the 
excitement of the shock Mr. Josh disappeared, and had not 
been seen since. But later in the afternoon he called, and 
said that if there was to be any inquest he was willing to 
come and give evidence. He left an address. 
Of course, there was a post-mortem, and 1 need hardly say 
that all our interest was concentrated on this mysterious 
visitor. He was a tall, elderly man, with a grey, pointed 
beard, a sallow complexion, and face on which the marks of 
' a hard and bitter life of struggle had left their trace. 
The case was ver\- simple and uneventful. The doctor 
said that death was due to heart failure, possibly caused by 
some sudden shock. The heart, in any case," was in a bad 
state. The servants gave evidence of the master's general 
disposition and of the visit of the stranger. When Mr. Josh 
was called, he spoke in a loud, rather raspish voice, like a 
man calling into the wind. ' He simply stated that he was 
an old friend of Mr. Herbert Read's. He had known him 
for nearly twenty-five years in South Africa. Happening to 
be in London, he looked him up in a telephone directory, and 
paid him an unexpected visit. They had spoken for a few 
moments, and Mr. Read had appeared very pleased and 
excited at meeting him again. And then suddenly he had 
put up his hands and fallen forward. That was all. The 
coroner thanked him for his evidence, and a verdict of 
"Death from natural causes" was passed. 
When the case was over, I approached Mr. Josh, and 
asked him if he would come back to the] house with us. He 
nodded in a nonchalant manner, and followed me out. On 
the way back I made vain attempts to draw him out, but he 
was as uncommunicative as Uncle Herbert himself. He 
merely repeated -what he had said at^the inquest. He had 
lunch ; and a curiously constrained meal it was, all of us 
speaking in httle self-conscious whispers, with the|[ exception 
of Albert, who didn't speak at all, and Mr. Josh, who occa- 
sionally shouted "Yes, thank you," or "No, thank you," 
in a loud voice. 
At three o'clock Uncle Herbert's lawyer arrived, and we 
were all called into the drawing-room for the|[_ reading of the 
will. I asked Mr. Josh to wait for us, and he'said^he would. 
It need hardh' be said that we were all in a great state''of 
trepidation. I really beheve that both Albert and I would 
have been relieved if it were proved that Uncle had died 
bankrupt. If we did indulge in this unaccountable arriere 
pensee we were quickly doomed to disappointment. The 
lawyer, speaking in a dry, unimpressive voice, announced 
that "as far as he could for the moment determine," Herbert 
. Read had left between £65,000 and £70,000. £30,000 of 
this was bequeathed to various charitable institutions in 
South Africa, and the residue of the estate was to be divided 
equally between his nephews and nieces. I shall never 
forget the varied expressions on the faces of my brothers and 
sisters when each one realised that he or she was to inherit 
between four and five thousand pounds 1 We gasped and said, 
nothing, though I remember Christopher, when the reading 
was finished, mumbhng something to the lawyer. I think 
he asked him if he'd hke a drink. I know the lawyer merely 
glared at him, coughed, and said nothing. 
When he had taken his departure in a frigidly ceremonious- 
manner, we all seemed too numbed to become garrulous. It 
was a duU day, and a fine rain was driving against the 
window-panes. We sat about smoking, and looking at each 
other, and occasionally whispering in strained voices. We 
might have been a co'.lection of people waiting their turn on 
the guillotine rather than a united family who had just 
inherited a fortune. Mr. Josh had gone out for a stroll 
during the reading of the will, and we were all;_ strangely 
anxious to see' him. He appeared to be our^last Unk that 
might bind the chain of our earthly prospects to a reasonable 
stake. He returned about five o'clbck, and strolled carelessly 
into the room, nodding at us in a casual manner, in the way 
that one might nod at a carriage full of people on a 
railway journey. 
We gave him some tea, and he lighted a cheroot. And 
then we each in turn made our effort to draw him out. We 
started casually, then we put leading questions, and tried to 
follow them up quickly. But Mr. Josh was not apparently 
to be drawn. He evidently disliked us, or was bored with 
us, and made no attempt to illuminate the dark shadows of 
our doubts. Perhaps he rather enjoyed the game. The 
room began to get dark, and we slunk back into the gloom, 
and gradually subsided into silence. We sat there watching 
the stranger ; the red glow of his cheroot seemed the only 
vital thing. 
It was Albert, as usual, wlxo broke the spell. He got up 
and walked to the window, then turned and cried out : 
"Well, I don't know about all you; but I know about 
myself. I'm not going to touch a penny of this damned 
money ! " 
I was sitting quite near our visitor, and in the half-light 
I saw a strange look come into his eye. It was as though 
for the first time something interested him. He started, 
and I said as quickly as I could : 
"Why not, Albert ?" 
"Because the money's not clean," he shouted into the 
room. 
I don't know how it was that none of the others took this 
up ; but we all sat there looking at the stranger. It was as 
though we waited breathlessly upon a verdict that he alone 
could give. He looked round at us, and carefully flicking 
the end of his cheroot, he obliged us with this epigram : 
"No money is clean. It passes through too many hands." 
We waited for more, but nothing came. Then Albert, 
with a tempestuous movement, bore down on him. 
"Look here," he said. "I don't know anything about 
you ; but you knew Uncle 'Erbert for twenty-five years. 
For God's sake, tell us how he made his money." 
The stranger looked at him, and blew smoke between his 
teeth ; then he said slowly : 
"Made his money? Your uncle never made more than 
two or three hundred a year ii) his life." 
"Ah, I knew it !" exclaimed Albert. 
Whether it was the result of my brother's forceful manner, 
or whether it was the atmosphere of suspense which urged 
him to it, I do not know. But certain it is that at that 
point oiu- visitor sank back languidly in his chair, and spoke : 
"I'll tell you what I know." 
We none of us moved, but we leant forward, and watched 
him as he proceeded : 
"In the spring of eighteen-forty-five," he began, "twc/ 
young men set out from^England to seek their fortunes^^in 
