"You forget there is a lot of cumulative evidence against Ivor before: his bringing a lawyer, who happens to have died since, to his uncle's bedside when he was dying—young Tracy's being refused admittance to his uncle—"
"Because the old man could not endure the sight of him latterly. Every one knows that he refused repeatedly to see him; and those who had heard him speak of his nephew during the last year or two were amazed to find that he had left him even so much as twenty thousand pounds."
Mordaunt shrugged his shoulders.
"The signature of the will is disputed, as you know."
An ejaculation indicative of intense scorn burst from his sister's lips.
"So he is to be accused of forgery. I wonder they don't add murder to the charge! Has the trial begun?"
"No, it has been again deferred."
She was silent for a moment, leaning her head upon her left hand, while with a pen in the right she traced some scrolls upon the note-paper before her.
"Poor Mr. Lawrence!" she said, at last. "I have a great mind to write to him."
"Good God! You wouldn't dream of doing anything so undignified, so outrageous, after his behavior to you, Grace? A fellow who runs after you for months so that half the world believes you are engaged to him, and that he is only waiting till he is rich enough to marry, and who, when he inherits this big fortune, turns his back and never comes near you again—and you would actually demean yourself to write to him?"