“What! Did my father leave the estate away from me? I thought he did not leave a will?”
“Nor did he.”
“Then how can anyone else except his son inherit?”
“Your question is a natural one. If you were his son you would inherit under the law.”
“If I were his son!” repeated Hector, slowly, his head swimming. “What do you mean by that? Of course I am your brother’s son.”
“It is very painful for me to tell, Hector. It will be distressing for you to hear. No tie of blood connects you with the late owner of Castle Roscoe.”
“I don’t believe you, Uncle Allan,” said Hector, bluntly.
“Of course, therefore, I am not your uncle,” added Allan Roscoe, dryly.
“I beg your pardon; I should have said Mr. Allan Roscoe,” said Hector, bowing proudly, for his heart was sore, and he was deeply indignant with the man who sat, smooth and sleek, in his father’s chair, harrowing up his feelings without himself being ruffled.
“That is immaterial. Call me uncle, if you like, since the truth is understood. But I must explain.”