“Oh, what is it!” she exclaimed. “Some bad news? Please—”
Mr. Tertius pulled himself together and tried to smile.
“You must forgive me, my dear,” he said, with a feeble attempt to speak cheerily. “I—the truth is, I think I have lived in such a state of ease and—yes, luxury, for so many years that I am not capable of readily bearing these trials and troubles. I’m ashamed of myself—I must be braver—not so easily affected.”
“But—the telegram?” said Peggie.
Mr. Tertius handed it to her with a dismal shake of his head.
“I suppose it’s only what was to be expected, after all that Halfpenny told me this afternoon,” he remarked. “But I scarcely thought it would occur so soon. My dear, I am afraid you must prepare yourself for a great deal of unpleasantness and worry. Your cousin seems to be determined to give much trouble. Extraordinary!—most extraordinary! My dear, I confess I do not understand it.”
Peggie had picked up the telegram and was reading it with knitted brow.
“‘Barthorpe entered caveat in Probate Registry at half-past three this afternoon,’” she slowly repeated. “But what does that mean, Mr. Tertius? Something to do with the will?”
“A great deal to do with the will, I fear!” replied Mr. Tertius, lugubriously. “A caveat, my dear, is some sort of process—I’m sure I don’t know whether it’s given by word of mouth, or if it’s a document—by which the admission to probate of a dead person’s last will and testament can be stopped. In plain language,” continued Mr. Tertius, “your cousin Barthorpe has been to the Probate Registry and done something to prevent Mr. Halfpenny from proving the will. It is a wicked action on his part—and, considering that he is a solicitor, and that he saw the will with his own eyes, it is, as I have previously remarked, most extraordinary!”
“And all this means—what?” asked Peggie.