She laughed. “That is no more than I expected. I have been yielding and complaisant so long that people—even you—have forgotten I have any rights to claim. But I am tired ... that does not amuse me any longer. I am going to take what my father gave me.”
“What did he give you?”
“Twenty thousand pounds.”
“Of course you are not in earnest,” said Fillmore with a smile.
“Mr. Lancaster will not agree with you.”
The lawyer looked at her, and became grave. “It is too late. You passed it on to him.”
“No!” said Perdita, planting her white hand on the papers upon the table. “Philip Lancaster appropriated a legacy which I did not know belonged to me. There was at that time no proof that the author of the will was my father. There was only a presumption, which, for reasons that I gave you, I refused to adopt. The death of Sir Francis, and the opening of this packet, have changed the whole matter. The proof is here, and the reasons that might influence me to disregard it no longer exist. I shall claim my right: I shall take what is mine: let him prevent me who can!”
“The possession by the other party makes against you,” said Fillmore. “Your surrender of the property would be an obstacle to your claiming it now. It is not easy to play fast and loose with twenty thousand pounds. You should have stated your objections earlier.”
“Tell me, sir, what proof was there, until now, that Mr. Grant was my father?”
“There was probability; and an understanding that proof could be produced if necessary.”