“You need not swear any more false oaths to me,” answered Tom; “I don’t desire to speak to you again, or see you again as long as I live.”
“Very well,” said Markworth, “so be it. But all I have to say is this, that if you wish to take back your sister you are free to do so; if she likes to go, I will not prevent her. As for you, madam,” he said, turning politely to Mrs Hartshorne, and bowing, “I have placed the matter in the hands of my solicitor, for I am determined to get the fortune to which my wife is entitled.”
“You’ll not get a penny, rogue,” retorted the dowager (barometer 28 degrees 64!) “not if there’s any law in the land.”
“We will see, madam.”
“Hark you, sir,” said Mr Trump, having his say, of which he had been sadly deprived all the time the dowager was going on. “Hark you, sir, we can find the girl was of unsound mind, as I told you before, and have you indicted for a conspiracy.”
“That we will!” echoed the dowager, “and have you on the treadmill, villain!”
Mrs Hartshorne had somewhat vague notions of the power of that large word in capitals—Law, and seemed to think that its obvious bent in any case, especially one like the present, was the treadmill.
“We will see,” answered Markworth, defiantly; “but you will have to prove your case, my dear sir. You see I did it all by myself, and the girl was a willing agent, and of age: she is of perfectly sound mind, as she can prove in the witness-box, and how you are to get over all that evidence remains to be proved.”
“We’ll prove it,” answered Mr Trump; but although he was certainly cross, his countenance did not exhibit any strong hopes of success. “The cunning vagabond is too much for us,” he murmured, sotto voce.
“Good morning,” said Markworth, blandly, to all, and he walked out triumphantly, the dowager screaming after him, “Not a penny will you get, scoundrel.”