"How strange!" says Mona. "But how then did you manage?"
"Well, just then it made little difference to us, as, shortly after my grandfather went off the hooks, we received what we believed to be authenticated tidings of my uncle's death."
"Yes?" says Mona, who looks and is, intensely interested.
"Well, belief, however strong, goes a short way sometimes. An uncommon short way with us."
"But your uncle's death made it all right, didn't it?"
"No, it didn't: it made it all wrong. But for that lie we should not be in the predicament in which we now find ourselves. You will understand me better when I tell you that the other day a young man turned up who declares himself to be my uncle George's son, and heir to his land and title. That was a blow. And, as this wretched will is not forthcoming, I fear he will inherit everything. We are disputing it, of course, and are looking high and low for the missing will that should have been sought for at the first. But it's very shaky the whole affair."
"It is terrible," says Mona, with such exceeding earnestness that he could have hugged her on the spot.
"It is very hard on Nick," he says disconsolately.
"And he is your cousin, this strange young man?"
"Yes, I suppose so," replies Mr. Rodney, reluctantly. "But he don't look like it. Hang it, you know," exclaims he, vehemently, "one can stand a good deal, but to have a fellow who wears carbuncle rings, and speaks of his mother as the 'old girl,' call himself your cousin, is more than flesh and blood can put up with: it's—it's worse than the lawsuit."