“I am proud to say I am.”
“You are also probably aware that there is a granddaughter of Mr Tregennas living, or presumed to be living, for whom he had refused to make any provision whatever?”
“To Anthony’s excessive regret,” said Mr Chester, marching on bravely.
“Those are your words, not mine.”
“Well, are you going to say they are a lie?” broke out the Squire in a white heat again. “His father told me with his own lips that they had done their utmost with the old curmudgeon, and he was the truest-hearted gentleman that ever breathed, sir!”
“Did his father tell you that, a week before his death, Mr Tregennas wrote to Anthony Miles, asking whether the Vicar would agree to half the fortune being made over to the grandchild, and—mark this—desiring him if he would not consent to take no notice of the letter?”
“Well?” said the Squire, stopping.
“Well.”
“Can’t you do anything but repeat one’s words?” growled Mr Chester with something else between his teeth.
“That is all.”