"What?" says he quickly. "No more bad news I hope."
"Oh, no! Oh, yes! I can't quite make it out—but—I'm afraid my poor uncle is dead."
"Your uncle?"
"Yes, yes. My father's brother. I think I told you about him. He went abroad years ago, and we—Joyce and I, believed him dead a long time ago, long before I married you even—but now——Come here and read it. It is worded so oddly that it puzzles me."
"Let me see it," says Monkton.
He sinks into an easy-chair, and drags her down on to his knee, the better to see over her shoulder. Thus satisfactorily arranged, he begins to read rapidly the letter she holds up before his eyes.
"Yes, dead indeed," says he sotto voce. "Go on, turn over; you mustn't fret about that, you know. Barbara—er—er—" reading. "What's this? By Jove!"
"What?" says his wife anxiously. "What is the meaning of this horrid letter, Freddy?"
"There are a few people who might not call it horrid," says Monkton, placing his arm round her and rising from the chair. He is looking very grave. "Even though it brings you news of your poor uncle's death, still it brings you too the information that you are heiress to about a quarter of a million!"
"What!" says Barbara faintly. And then, "Oh no. Oh! nonsense! there must be some mistake!"