"Yet I think Warden knows more than he cares to tell," says Mona, at a venture. Why, she herself hardly knows.
He turns, as though by an irrepressible impulse, to look keenly at her. His scrutiny endures only for an instant. Then he says, with admirable indifference,—
"You have grounds for saying so, of course?"
"Perhaps I have. Do you deny I am in the right?" asks she, returning his gaze undauntedly.
He drops his eyes, and the low, sneering laugh she has learned to know and to hate so much comes again to his lips.
"It would be rude to deny that," he says, with a slight shrug. "I am sure you are always in the right."
"If I am, Warden surely knows more about the will than he has sworn to."
"It is very probable,—if there ever was such a will. How should I know? I have not cross-examined Warden on this or any other subject. He is an overseer over my estate, a mere servant, nothing more."
"Has he the will?" asks Mona, foolishly, but impulsively.
"He may have, and a stocking full of gold, and the roc's egg, or anything else, for aught I know. I never saw it. They tell me there was an iniquitous and most unjust will drawn up some years ago by old Sir George: that is all I know."