“So you are,” said Antonia slowly. “I never thought of that.”
“No, nor did I, but under Father's Will I must be. Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds! I must get on to Violet and tell her!”
He jumped up, but was checked by his sister. “Rot! How do you know?”
“Because I made it my business to find out when Arnold wouldn't advance me a mere five hundred. Murgatroyd, Murgatroyd! I'm rich! Do you hear? I'm rich!”
Murgatroyd, who had come back into the room to fold up the tea-cloth, replied: “Yes, I hear, and if you take my advice, Master Kenneth, you'll keep a still tongue in your head. The idea of shouting out "I'm rich!" when your half-brother met his end like he has!”
“Who cares how he met his end as long as he did meet it? What's Violet's number?”
“Don't you talk like that, Master Kenneth! How would you like to have a knife stuck in you? Nasty, underhand way of killing anyone, that's what I call it.”
“I don't see it at all,” objected Kenneth. “It's no worse than shooting a person, and far more sensible. Shooting's noisy, for one thing, and, for another, you leave a bullet in your man, and it gets traced to you. Whereas a knife doesn't leave anything behind, and is easy to get rid of.”
“I don't know how you can stand there and say such things!” exclaimed Murgatroyd indignantly. “Downright indecent, that's what it is! Nor no amount of fine talking will make me say other than what I do say, and stand by! It's a dirty, mean trick to knife people!”
Kenneth waved his hands at her in one of his excitable gestures. “It isn't any dirtier or meaner than any other way! You make me sick with that kind of mawkish twaddle! What is Violet's number?”