“It belongs to Jonathan Eliot, my grandfather; and everything in it—money and all—belongs to him!” she asserted with pride. “As for you, Elaine Halliday, we have submitted to your insufferable insolence long enough—but only because you understood gran’pa, and were good to him, were you allowed to remain. Your temper and your airs have become unbearable, however, and we will at once secure another servant to take your place.”
The housekeeper stared at her as if she could not believe the evidence of her own ears. Then she laughed—a hard, cackling laugh that was horrible to hear.
“I’ll not be turned out, my girl,” she said scornfully; “but you Darings will get out of here, neck and crop, or I’ll call in the law to help me.”
“The law, Elaine?”
“Yes; the law! This house is mine. It does not belong to Jonathan Eliot. And all its contents are mine, deeded to me in black and white as the reward of my faithful services. The money you have stolen, thief that you are, is mine, too, and unless you return every penny of it you’ll go to jail, Phœbe Daring.”
It was Phœbe’s turn to stare. Could the woman be speaking the truth?
“Where is the proof of your statement?” she asked.
Without a word Elaine turned and reëntered her room. A few minutes later she came back with a paper—a dreadful, legal-looking document—which she unfolded and held before Phœbe’s face for her to read, grasping it tightly the while and prepared to snatch it away if the girl made any movement to secure it.
Phœbe, frightened and horrified, made an effort to read the writing. It was not very distinct, but seemed to state in legal jargon that Jonathan Eliot, being of sound mind and owing no person a debt of any sort, did of his own free will and accord give and transfer to Elaine Halliday all his worldly possessions, including his residence in Riverdale and all its contents of whatsoever kind or description, in return for faithful service rendered him and duly acknowledged.
“Have you read it?” asked the woman, hoarsely.