“Then,” replied the attorney, referring to the will, “the estate would have gone to the only man who ever made a proposal of marriage to the deceased—and whom she refused.”
Larry had his eyes fixed upon O’Hara, who at these words, started suddenly, and sat bolt upright.
“An’ who wur that, Johnnie?” asked Mrs. Clancy, who, womanlike, felt a great curiosity upon this point.
“Our esteemed friend, Malachi O’Hara.”
“What!” shrieked Clancy, leaping to his feet. “D’yez mane till say, Goose, me b’y, that yez made the owld harp do himself out av a fort’in?”
“Not me,” said McGonagle, modestly; “it was Murphy.”
O’Hara had slowly arisen, his dumpy form quivering, his face crimson with wrath.
“It wur a conspiracy!” exclaimed he, thumping the floor with his cane; “a conspiracy to defraud me out av me possible roights!”
“’Twur a nate bit av wurk,” cried Clancy, enthusiastically shaking his son-in-law by the hand. “An’ I forgi’ yez for my part av it. Sure, yez are all great b’ys together!”
O’Hara continued to stamp about the room; Rosie wept on Jimmie’s shoulder, frightened at her father’s anger. At last the second-hand dealer grabbed up his hat and made for the door.