Maida gasped. All her troubles removed at once—but at such a price! She thought of Allen, and a great wave of love surged over her.
“Oh, I can’t—I can’t,” she moaned. “What are you, Mr. Appleby? I love my chosen mate, my fiancé, Jeffrey Allen. Would you ask me to give him up and marry your son, whom I esteem highly, but do not love?”
“Certainly; I ask just that. You are free to say yes or no!”
“Then, I say no. There must be some other way! Give me some other chance, even though it be a harder one!”
“All right, I will.” Mr. Appleby’s face was hard now, his lips set in a straight line; he was about to play his last card. “All right, I will. Here it is. The other heir, of whom I spoke to you the other day, is Curtis Keefe.”
“Mr. Keefe!”
“Yes—but wait—he doesn’t know it. I hit upon a clue in his chance reference to his mother’s family, and unknown to him I investigated genealogies and all that, and it is positive, he is the heir to all this estate, and not your mother.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, absolutely certain. But, remember, he doesn’t know it. He has no idea of such a thing. Now, if you’ll marry Sam, Keefe shall never know. I’ll burn all the papers that I have in evidence. You and I will forget the secret, and your father and mother can rest in undisturbed possession here for the rest of their lives.”
“And you wouldn’t insist on father’s campaign work?”