"She left me some letters."
The Saint almost spilt his drink. He sat down heavily on the edge of the table.
"She left you some letters? After you'd practically been a slave to her ever since you came out of finishing school? What did she do with the rest of her property — leave it to a home for stray cats?"
"No, she left it to Harry."
"Who?"
"Her grandson."
"I didn't know you had any brothers."
"I haven't. Harry Westler is my cousin. He's — well, as a matter of fact he's a sort of black sheep. He's a gambler, and he was in prison once for forging a check. Nobody else in the family would have anything to do with him, and if you believe what they used to say about him they were probably quite right; but Granny always had a soft spot for him. She never believed he could do anything wrong — he was just a mischievous boy to her. Well, you know how old she was…"
"And she left everything to him?"
"Practically everything. I'll show you."