But there was no doubt about it. Old Tom was dead: the six weeks were
still two days short of their fulfilment; the property was his; his day
had come.
He walked straight to La Closerie, and stalked grimly into the kitchen,
where, as it happened, they were sitting over a doleful and long-delayed
meal.
Mrs. Hamon had been too overwhelmed by the unexpected blow to consider
all its bearings. Grannie, looking beyond, had foreseen consequences and
trouble with Tom, and had sent for Stephen Gard and given him some
elementary instruction relative to the laws of succession in Sark.
Tom stalked in upon them with malevolent triumph. They had tried their
best to oust him from his inheritance and the act of God had spoiled
them. He felt almost virtuous.
But his natural truculence, and his not altogether unnatural exultation
at the frustration of these plans for his own upsetting, overcame all
else. Of regret for their personal loss and his own he had none.
"Oh--ho! Mighty fine, aren't we, feasting on the best," he began. "Let
me tell you all this is mine now, spite of all your dirty tricks, and
you can get out, all of you, and the sooner the better.
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