Margaret Burton drew back for a second and stared at him. He drew himself away from her eyes. Suddenly she laid her hand on him again.
"Mester Stivven," she said, coaxingly, "come wi' me—I ha' summat to tell you. Come!"
Ten minutes later Stephen walked into the best parlour, followed by Margaret Burton. Michael was engaged in an earnest conversation with the rest, and especially with Stephen's wife, as to Stephen's future. Stephen lifted a commanding hand.
"Stop that!" he said. "We've had enough of you—we'll see who's master here. My turn," he went on, as Michael would have spoken. "Come forward, Margaret. This woman, Mr. Brooke, has been my father's housekeeper since my mother died, and was servant for years before that—weren't you, Margaret?"
"Twelve years before that, sir."
"Twelve years before that—and in my mother's confidence," Stephen continued.
"Now, then, Margaret, take Mr. Brooke into that corner. Tell him what you've told me about what my mother told you the week she died, and give him those papers she left with you to prove what she said. And then—then we'll see, we'll see!"
The rest of the people watched the whispered colloquy between the solicitor and the old woman with mingled feelings. It was a large, rambling room, with great embrasures to the windows, and nobody could hear a word that was said. But Miriam knew that she was not the only possessor of the secret, and she unconsciously slid her hand into Michael's.
Lawyer Brooke, some folded papers in his hand, came back with knitted brow and troubled eyes. He was going to speak, but Stephen stopped him.
"I'm master here," he said. "Margaret, come this way." He pointed to Michael. "What's that man's real name?" he asked, with an evil sneer. "Is it—well, now, what is it? 'Cause, of course, his isn't what mine is. Mine is my father's—mine's Weere."