"There is no need of doing anything about the property at present, is there? I am the legal heir, am I not?"
"Ahem! Yes."
"Then it is for me to say what shall be done. I am in no hurry to assume possession of my boy's fortune."
Mr. Craven bit his lip. Here was an impracticable woman. Apparently, nothing could be done with her—at least as long as she shared this delusion.
"I shall soon be able to convince you," he said, "that you are laboring under a happy but an untenable delusion. I expect Colonel Sharpley in the next steamer."
Mrs. Craven looked up now.
"Is he coming here?" she asked.
"Yes; so he writes. He wishes to tell you all about the accident—how it happened, and some details of poor Frank's last experiences in Europe. He felt that it would be a satisfaction to you to hear them from his own lips. He has, therefore, made this journey expressly on your account."
Mrs. Craven looked upon Sharpley as the murderer of her boy. It was his hand, she believed, that thrust him from the cliff and meant to compass his death. Could she receive such a man as a guest?