"Or lose it yourself, sir. I quite understand. Nevertheless, I am assured that the law of the land will protect, through me, my daughter's rights. She leaves it in my hands."
"Yes," said the girl, in a voice as full and rich and soft as her smooth-faced mother, "I leave it in her hands."
Paul sat down and concealed his face with a groan. He was thinking not so much of the loss of the money, although that was a consideration, as of the shame Sylvia would feel at her position. Then a gleam of hope darted into his mind. "Mr. Norman was married to Sylvia's mother under his own name. You can't prove the marriage void."
"I have no wish to. When did this marriage take place?"
Beecot looked at the lawyer, who replied. "Twenty-two years ago," and he gave the date.
Mrs. Krill fished in a black morocco bag she carried and brought out a shabby blue envelope. "I thought this might be needed," she said, passing it to Pash. "You will find there my marriage certificate. I became the wife of Lemuel Krill thirty years ago. And, as I am still living, I fear the later marriage—" She smiled blandly and shrugged her shoulders again. "Poor girl!" she said with covert insolence.
"Sylvia does not need your pity," cried Beecot, stung by the insinuation.
"Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Krill, sadly, and with the look of a treacherous cat, "I fear she needs the pity of all right-thinking people. Many would speak harshly of her, seeing what she is, but my troubles have taught me charity. I repeat that I am sorry for the girl."
"And again I say there is no need," rejoined Paul, throwing back his head; "and you forget, madam, there is a will."
Mrs. Krill's fresh color turned to a dull white, and her hard eyes shot fire. "A will," she said slowly. "I shall dispute the will if it is not in my favor. I am the widow of this man and I claim full justice. Besides," she went on, wetting her full lips with her tongue, "I understood from the newspapers that the money was left to Mr. Krill's daughter."