"Well; we can only hope for the best. That's what I do, I can assure you."
"That is true. We do hope for the best—all of us. I can still do that, if I do nothing else."
"Of course," said Sir Henry. And then he stood still for a while, meditating how best he might make use of his present opportunity. What could he say to secure some fraction of the hundreds of thousands which belonged to the dying man? That he had a right to at least a moiety of them his inmost bosom told him; but how should he now plead his rights? Perhaps after all it would have been as well for him to have remained in London.
"Mr. Bertram," at last he said, "I hope you won't think it unbecoming in me if I say one word about business in your present state?"
"No—no—no," said the old man. "I can't do much, as you see; but I'll endeavour to listen."
"You can't be surprised that I should be anxious about my wife."
"Umph!" said Mr. Bertram. "You haven't treated her very well, it seems."
"Who says so?"
"A woman wouldn't leave a fine house in London, to shut herself up with a sick old man here, if she were well treated. I don't want any one to tell me that."
"I can hardly explain all this to you now, sir; particularly—"