“Hah!”
It was a long, low expiration of the breath from Saul Harrington, who was too deep in thought to hear what was going on, as, with hands down in his pockets, he gazed down fixedly at the carpet.
“And if George Harrington dies, I succeed to everything. Yes,” he said to himself, “I should be master here. Get out! Beast!”
He said these last words aloud, for the dog was sniffing at his legs, and all the time it seemed as if the portrait of old James Harrington was the old man himself, gazing down sternly from the wall at his plotting nephew.
“Yes, if he dies—if he dies—I shall be master here.”
Chapter Seven.
Ready for the Heir.
“There, Miss Gertrude,” said Mrs Denton, carefully pinning the white apron she had rolled up to guard against its falling open—the apron she had been wearing for a fortnight, “I don’t like to boast, but I think I may say that The Mynns never looked cleaner since it was a house.”