"Oh, you must be mistaken," said Durham, quickly. "He never said you were to have more than one hundred."
"He might not to you, but he did to me," said the housekeeper, doggedly. "I have a right to five hundred."
"I think not," said the lawyer, calmly. "And let me tell you, Mrs. Gilroy, that Sir Simon did not place your name at all in the second will. Had it been executed, you would not have had even the one hundred you despise. Therefore, you may congratulate yourself"—he watched her face while speaking—"that Sir Simon changed his mind about disinheriting his grandson."
The woman's eyes glittered still more maliciously and a color rose in her bloodless cheeks. "Oh!" she said, with icy disdain, "so Sir Simon would have deprived me of my rights, would he? It's lucky he's dead, or he'd find himself on the wrong side of the hedge with me."
"Ah!" Durham resumed his seat and waited to hear what would come forth. And something would come out not easily attainable at other times, for Mrs. Gilroy was apparently losing her temper. This was most extraordinary for her, as she was usually cautious. But since the death of her master, who had kept her in check, she seemed to be a much more reckless woman. The lawyer had always wondered what bond held Sir Simon and the housekeeper together, and now there seemed some likelihood that he would learn, if he held his tongue and allowed full play to that of Mrs. Gilroy.
"I knew how it would be," she muttered. "I guessed he would play me false. He never was worth a kekaubi."
"You are a gipsy," said Durham, looking up.
"What makes you say that?"
"Kekaubi is Romany for kettle. You wouldn't use it unless—"
"Who I am is nothing to you," interrupted Mrs. Gilroy, sharply.