Paul Desfrayne drew a letter from the pocket of the light coat which he had thrown over his evening dress, and looked at it for a moment or two in silence, as if at a loss how to introduce its evidently embarrassing contents.
His mother watched him with undisguised anxiety, her brilliant eyes half-veiled by the blue-veined lids.
“This letter,” Paul at length said, “is from a legal firm. It refers to a person whom I had some difficulty in recalling to mind, and places me in a most embarrassing position toward another person whom I have never seen.”
“A situation certainly indicating a promise of some perplexity,” Mrs. Desfrayne half-laughingly remarked.
“Some years ago,” Paul continued, “there lived an old man—he was an iron-dealer originally, or something of that sort—a person in a very humble rank of life; but somehow he contrived to make an enormous fortune. He has, in fact, left the sum of nearly three hundred thousand pounds.”
“To you?” demanded Mrs. Desfrayne, in a thrilling tone, not as if she believed such to be the case; for her son’s accent scarcely warranted such an assumption; but as if the wish was father to the thought.
Paul shook his head.
“Not to me—to some young girl he took an interest in, as far as I can understand. I happened to render him a slight service—I hardly remembered it now—some insignificant piece of civility or kindness. It seems he entertained a great respect for me, and attributed the rise of his wealth to me. This young girl—I don’t know whether she was related to him or not—has been left the sole, or nearly the sole, inheritor of his money, and I——”
“And you, Paul?”
“Have been nominated her trustee and sole executor by his will. I believe he has bequeathed me some few thousands, as a remuneration for my trouble.”