“And so it does; it stands to reason, as you say; and yet penniless she was when she died, and penniless she had been for ten years before; and if she lived in good style, it was because I paid the bills; and if this young cub, my nephew, wore good clothes and ate good dinners, it was my charity he had to thank. Little by little, stick by stick, my mother disposed of all the property her husband left her, selling the bulk of it to me, and sending the proceeds to France, to help to reconstruct the fortunes of her family there, who were ruined by the revolution. She was a pauper when she died; and that's why I took out no Letters of Administration—because there was nothing to administrate upon. There, now I've told you more than I was under any obligation to; and now, both of you, get out!”
“Come, Greg,” said Rip, “let's go.”
We went. Out of doors, I began, “Well, Rip”—
“Well, Greg,” Rip interrupted, “we've been on a fool's errand, a wild-goose chase, and the less said about it the better.”
“And I—I'm not rich, after all?”
“That's what's the matter, Greg. If she didn't leave any property—you see, we took it for granted that she did—why, there's nothing for you to inherit. It's too bad, old fellow; but then, you're no worse off than you were in the beginning. Anyhow, there's no use crying over spilt milk. Come on; let's take the afternoon train to New York.”
So my fine castle in the air had fallen to pieces like a house of cards. I tell you, it was a mighty crest-fallen young gentleman, in a very humble frame of mind, who sat next to Arthur Ripley that afternoon in the train that was speeding to New York.