"I don't think so. I have not gone through all the safes below, and may come across the marriage certificate of Miss Krill's—I beg pardon, Miss Norman's—mother and father. Then there's the birth certificate. We must prove that Miss Sylvia is the daughter of my late esteemed client."
"What's that?" shouted Deborah. "Why, I knowed her mother as died. She's the daughter right enough, and—"
"There's no need to shout," chattered Pash, angrily. "I know that as well as you do; I must act, however, as reason dictates. I'll prove the will and see that all is right." Then, dreading Deborah's tongue he hastily added "Good-day," and left the room. But he was not to escape so easily. Deborah plunged after him and made scathing remarks about legal manners all the way down to the door.
Paul and Sylvia left alone looked and smiled and fell into one another's arms. The will had been read and the money left to the girl, thereby the future was all right, so they thought that Pash's visit demanded no further attention. "He'll do all that is to be done," said Paul. "I don't see the use of keeping a dog and having to bark yourself."
"And I'm really a rich woman, Paul," said Sylvia, gladly.
"Really and truly, as I am a pauper. I think perhaps," said Beecot, sadly, "that you might make a better match than—"
Sylvia put her pretty hand over his moustache. "I won't hear it, Paul," she cried vehemently, with a stamp of her foot. "How dare you? As if you weren't all I have to love in the world now poor father—is—is de-a-d," and she began to weep. "I did not love him as I ought to have done, Paul."
"My own, he would not let you love him very much."
"N-o-o," said Sylvia, drying her eyes on Paul's handkerchief, which he produced. "I don't know why. Sometimes he was nice, and sometimes he wasn't. I never could understand him, and you know, Paul, we didn't treat him nicely."
"No," admitted Beecot, frankly, "but he forgave us."