Stella was so surprised that for a moment she could only stare at him. Then she said: “Rot! I don't believe you!”
Randall laughed. “I don't suppose you do, my sweet.”
“But why?” she demanded. “What's the idea?”
He shrugged. “Oh, I already have enough for my—er—simple needs,” he said.
“Either you're mad or you're up to something,” said Stella with conviction. “Whoever heard of giving away a whole fortune?”
“Yes, I feel that there's a certain pleasing originality about it,” agreed Randall. “Have some more sherry?”
She shook her head. “No thanks. Even you wouldn't do a thing like that for a gesture. Is it to stop people saying that you probably killed uncle because you were hard-up?”
“Do they say so?” inquired Randall. “I thought that particular theory was confined to the members of my affectionate family. Moreover, I'm not hard-up.”
She said shrewdly: “It's my belief you know something about uncle's death that we don't.”
“If by that ambiguous remark you mean that you believe I had something to do with uncle's death, I would point out to you, my sweet one, that the last time I saw him was on Sunday, May 12th.”