“Captain Dott,” he said, addressing that gentleman, but bowing politely to Serena to indicate that she was included in the question, “you received a letter from our firm about a week ago, did you not?”
Captain Dan, who had scarcely recovered from his surprise at his caller's identity, shook his head. “As a matter of fact,” he stammered, “I—I only got it to-day. It came all right, that is, it got as far as the post-office, but the postmaster, he handed it over to Balaam Hamilton, to bring to me. Well, Balaam is—well, his underpinnin's all right; he wears a number eleven shoe—but his top riggin' is kind of lackin' in spots. You'd understand if you knew him. He put the letter in his pocket and—”
“Mercy!” cut in Serena, impatiently, “what do you suppose Mr. Farwell cares about Balaam Hamilton? He forgot the letter, Mr. Farwell, and we only got it this morning. That is why it hasn't been answered. What about the letter?”
The visitor did not answer directly. “I see,” he said. “That letter informed you that Mrs. Lavinia Dott—your aunt, Captain,—was dead, and that we, her legal representatives, having, as we supposed, her will in our possession, and being in charge of her affairs—”
Mrs. Dott interrupted. Her excitement had been growing ever since she learned the visitor's name and, although her husband did not notice the peculiar phrasing of the lawyer's sentence, she did.
“As you supposed?” she repeated. “You did have the will, didn't you?”
“We had a will, one which Mrs. Dott drew some eight or nine years ago. But we received word from Italy only yesterday that there was another, a much more recent one, which superseded the one in our possession. Of course, that being the case, the bequests in the former were not binding upon the estate. That is to say, our will was not a will at all.”
Serena gasped. She looked at her husband, and he at her.
“Then we—then she didn't leave us the three thousand dollars?” she cried.
“Or—or the tea-pot?” faltered Captain Dan.