"She leaves you L20,000 in trust for the benefit of her child and
yours--Mary Bartley."
"Poor, dear Eliza."
The Colonel looked as less high-bred people do when they say "Gammon,"
but proceeded civilly though brusquely.
"In dealing with the funds you have a large discretion. Should the girl
die before you, or unmarried, the money lapses to your nephew, my son,
Walter Clifford. He is a scapegrace, and has run away from me; but I must
protect his just interests. So as a mere matter of form I will ask you
whether Mary Bartley is alive."
Bartley bowed his head.
Colonel Clifford had not heard she was ill, so he continued: "In that
case"--and then, interrupting himself for a moment, turned away to
Bartley's private table, and there emptied his pockets of certain
documents, one of which he wanted to select.
His back was not turned more than half a minute, yet a most expressive
pantomime took place in that short interval.
The nurse opened a door of communication, and stood with a rush at the
threshold: indeed, she would have rushed in but for the stranger.
Pages:
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37