"Oh, please—not now—there's no hurry—not just now. You look so tired—sit down a moment and rest yourself."
Paula smiled at her landlady's solicitude, and, taking off her hat and coat, thrust some money in the elder woman's hand.
"Yes—yes—I insist," she said. "I've been downtown all morning, waiting for my lawyer in a stuffy little office—and even then I didn't succeed in seeing Mr. Ricaby. Nothing makes one so tired as failing to do what one starts out to do."
"Sit down, dear, and rest yourself," said Mrs. Parkes, proceeding to bustle about. "Let me get you a cup of tea—now, do—you look so tired!"
"Don't say that, please," protested the young girl. "It makes me feel ten times more tired than I really am."
"But I insist. The water is boiling," said the landlady, hurrying out of the room. "I won't be a moment. A nice cup of tea is just the thing. Harry will keep you company while I'm gone." With a mischievous wink at her son, she added, as she disappeared: "Won't you, Harry—like a good boy?"
CHAPTER VII.
Two years had slipped by since Paula's return to America and matters relating to the inheritance were no nearer actual settlement than before. They were even more complicated, for the law, with all its ponderous, intricate machinery, all its chicanery and false swearing, had been set in motion, not to protect the orphan but to shield those knaves who sought to enjoy what was not their own.
Tod's startling revelation in his stepfather's library, the morning the will was being read, regarding John Marsh's secret marriage, came as a terrible shock to Jimmy. At first he loudly denounced it as a damnable lie, a blackmailing scheme, the invention of some hidden enemy. Then, as he grew calmer and learned more details, he began to realize that the elaborate structure which he had built up so carefully for years was about to topple and in his disappointment he grew almost hysterical. He stormed and raved, working himself into such a frenzy that it was dangerous to go near him. But for Bascom Cooley, who still held out hope, he would have shot himself. But Cooley, the resourceful, cunning Cooley advised patience. All might be well. The money was not yet lost by any means. What were the courts for if not to see that justice was done? And Mr. Cooley was honest in his belief that a very serious injustice would be done if the money went anywhere else than into his own pockets. The new will must be contested. Some way must be devised to have it declared invalid. It must be shown that John Marsh was insane at the time he made the will and that the Frenchwoman he lived with was not his wife. If this were true the girl Paula Marsh was not his legitimate daughter. The truth of these statements would not be in question for a moment, for reliable witnesses would go on the stand and solemnly swear to them. Mr. Cooley knew where such witnesses could be found. It was only a question of money. The longest purse secured the greatest number of witnesses, for, strangely enough, very few people are willing to commit perjury gratis. Cooley attended to everything, and well, he might. He himself had as much at stake as Jimmy. So, going among his influential friends, the "men higher up," he set the wheels of justice moving—in his own direction.