“Mr Steve,” he said, “I will be very brief. I might have communicated with you through my solicitor, but thought it more fair to you, and more honourable in me, to come personally, for, after all, when you hear what I have to say, litigation will be unnecessary.”
“Litigation, sir? Pray go on,” said Steve, smiling somewhat sarcastically. “You’re not out of your mind, are you?”
“You shall judge for yourself. You purchased this estate of Alva, sir, from the late Laird McGregor?”
“I did, and paid for it handsomely.”
“But by the laws of this country entailed estates cannot be sold and the entail thus broken, unless it can be proved that no other male heir lives. Thus in point of fact, at all events, were the lands and estates of Alva left by will to the McGregors and their lineal descendants.”
“See, stranger,” said Steve, “I’m not going to debate here all night on matters of law. Law is a dry subject at best. I bought Alva, there was no other male heir to McGregor, and his only son was drowned at sea.”
“His only son now stands before you!”
“Then the father—”
“Stay,” cried young McGregor, “tempt me not to do that I should be sorry for. I came but to inform you I would make every attempt to win back my own. I have now to say good-night.”
“I thank you,” sneered Steve, “for your courtesy; but do—not—fear—you. Good-night.”