“Help me do what? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Help you in establishing your claim. And fate has put into my hands the very person, the one person who can do that. You know there was a man who was in the cabin with Moreau—a partner. Did you ever hear of him?”
She nodded, swallowing dryly. Her sense of apprehension strengthened with his every word.
“Well, I have that man under my hand. He and Mrs. Shackleton are the only living witnesses of the transaction whereby your mother and you passed into Moreau’s keeping. And I have him. I’ve got him here.” He made a gesture with his thumb as though pressing the ball of it down on something. Then he looked at Mariposa with eyes full of an eager cupidity.
She did not respond with the show of interest he had expected, but stood looking down, pale and motionless. Her brain was in an appalled chaos from which stood out only a few facts. This terrible man knew her secret—the secret of her mother’s life and honor—that she would have died to hide in the sacredness of her love for the dead man and woman who could no longer defend themselves.
“It seems as if fate had sent me to help you,” he went on; “you couldn’t do it alone.”
“Do what?” she asked without moving.
“Establish your claim as the real heir. Of course you’re the chief heir. I’ve been looking it up. The others will get a share as acknowledged children. But you ought to get the bulk of the fortune as the only legitimate child.”
“Establish my claim?” she repeated. “Do you mean, prove that I’m Jake Shackleton’s daughter?”
“Yes. And there’s a tremendously important point. Did your mother have papers or letters showing that she had been Shackleton’s wife?”