“It is about that miserable legacy. It seems to haunt us like an evil spirit. What do you think, love—there was a codicil in the will, as I said, and the money is left in such a way that if I refuse it, it might come to you, unless you refuse it too. And I hope—”
“Come to me!” echoed Philip in amazement. “How is that?”
“It is the wording of the codicil that makes it so,” said Marion. “It says, ‘To my nearest acknowledged relative,’ or something of that sort, and that might be you.”
“It might be I, if it were not the Marquise Desmoines,” returned Philip, with a short laugh. “You forget her.”
“No, I didn’t forget her; but Mr. Fillmore says that she will not acknowledge that she is his daughter at all. And you are the next nearest to her.”
“I never in my life heard of twenty thousand pounds going begging in this fashion,” said Philip, bringing his hands down on the arms of the chair. “Anybody would think it was poisoned. So she maintains she is not his daughter?”
“It is very strange of her: there must be some reason besides what she says,” remarked Marion. “I remember when she stood by the bed where he was lying, poor dear, she called him ‘father;’ and though he could not hear her, I could.”
“Well, that is not legal proof, after all.”
“But the letters in the packet she gave me to keep—those would be legal.”
“They might or they might not. There’s no telling.”