"Dead! This is very sudden. I am very, very sorry. I—"
Colonel Clifford looked the word "Humbug," and continued to expel short sentences.
"On her death-bed she made me promise to give you my hand. There it is."
His hand was propelled out, caught flying by Bartley, released, and drawn back again, all by machinery it seemed.
"She leaves you £20,000 in trust for the benefit of her child and yours—Mary Bartley."
"Poor, dear Eliza."
The Colonel looked as less high-bred people do when they say "Gammon," but proceeded civilly though brusquely.
"In dealing with the funds you have a large discretion. Should the girl die before you, or unmarried, the money lapses to your nephew, my son, Walter Clifford. He is a scapegrace, and has run away from me; but I must protect his just interests. So as a mere matter of form I will ask you whether Mary Bartley is alive."
Bartley bowed his head.
Colonel Clifford had not heard she was ill, so he continued: "In that case"—and then, interrupting himself for a moment, turned away to Bartley's private table, and there emptied his pockets of certain documents, one of which he wanted to select.