She went to a drawer of the writing table and brought him a typewritten sheet. He saw that it was a copy of a will, and turned to the details of the bequests.
To my dear granddaughter Jacqueline Laine, who has taken care of me so thoughtfully and unselfishly for four years, One Hundred Dollars and my letters from Sidney Farlance, knowing that she will find them of more value than anything else I could leave her. To my cook, Eliza Jefferson, and my chauffeur, Albert Gordon, One Hundred Dollars each, for their loyal service. The remainder of my estate, after these deductions, including my house and other personal belongings, to my dear grandson Harry Westler, hoping that it will help him to make the success of life of which I have always believed him capable.
Simon folded the sheet and dropped it on the table from his finger tips as if it were infected.
"Suffering Judas," he said helplessly. "After all you did for her — to pension you off on the same scale as the cook and the chauffeur! And what about Harry — doesn't he propose to do anything about it?"
"Why should he? The will's perfectly clear."
"Why shouldn't he? Just because the old crow went off her rocker in the last days of senile decay is no reason why he shouldn't do something to put it right. There must have been enough for both of you."
"Not so much. They found that Granny had been living on her capital for years. There was only about twenty thousand dollars left — and the house."
"What of it? He could spare half."
Jacqueline smiled — a rather tired little smile.
"You haven't met Harry. He's — difficult… He's been here, of course. The agents already have his instructions to sell the house and the furniture. He gave me a week to get out, and the week is up the day after tomorrow… I couldn't possibly ask him for anything."