The question fell like a bombshell. It had not been thought of, or at least not spoken of, by any of the party. The bareness of it, the implication of it, gave a shock, as of a sudden accusation.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Wynne Landon said, slowly.
“But you know?” queried Crawford.
“Of course I know. Unless Gifford Bruce left a contradictory will, his estate must revert to Rudolph Braye, the son of Mr. Bruce’s half-brother——”
“Why, Wynne,” interrupted Milly, “you’re a cousin.”
“I am,” and Landon flushed unaccountably, “but I’m a second cousin. Braye would inherit, unless a will made other proviso.”
“Where is Mr. Braye?”
“He went to New York last evening and has not yet returned.”
“You expect him soon?”
“This afternoon, probably. Of course, he has realized that he is the heir of a great fortune, but naturally he would not discuss it last evening, when we were all so alarmed and excited over the awfulness of the situation.”