Slowly he draws from his pocket a paper, folded neatly, that looks like some old parchment. Mona draws her breath quickly, and turns first crimson with emotion, then pale as death. Opening it at a certain page, he points out to her the signature of George Rodney, the old baronet.
"Give it to me!" cries she, impulsively, her voice, trembling. "It is the missing will. You found it last night. It belongs to Nicholas. You must—nay," softly, beseechingly, "you will give it to me."
"Do you know all you ask? By relinquishing this iniquitous deed I give up all hope of ever gaining this place,—this old house that even to me seems priceless. You demand much. Yet on one condition it shall be yours."
"And the condition?" asks she, eagerly, going closer to him. What is it that she would not do to restore happiness to those she has learned to love so well?
"A simple one."
"Name it!" exclaims she, seeing he still hesitates.
He lays his hands lightly on her arm, yet his touch seems to burn through her gown into her very flesh. He stoops towards her.
"For one kiss this deed shall be yours," he whispers, "to do what you like with it."
Mona starts violently, and draws back; shame and indignation cover her. Her breath comes in little gasps.
"Are you a man, to make me such a speech?" she says, passionately, fixing her eyes upon him with withering contempt.