“We’ll not let you go to jail, Phœbe,” he asserted, in a tone that carried conviction.
“But I—I’ve stolen her money!” she moaned.
“I don’t believe it. I know Jonathan Eliot. And I’ve known other misers before him. Not one of them would ever give up a dollar of their beloved accumulation as long as a spark of life remained in their bodies—your grandfather, least of all. And to his housekeeper! Why should he resign it to her, I’d like to know?”
“She seems to have a powerful influence over him,” remarked Phœbe, thoughtfully. “She alone is able to communicate with him now, or make him understand. She alone cares for him while he is helpless as a baby, and he depends upon her promise to see that his body is finally laid in the queer tomb he once built. Perhaps she obliged him to give her everything, by threatening to leave him to die alone.”
“Don’t believe a word of it, my dear!” exclaimed the lawyer, pounding his fist on the table for emphasis. “If Jonathan Eliot is clear-headed enough to dictate that deed of gift, or to sign it, he is still shrewd enough not to part with his money. Deeds of gift executed under compulsion are illegal, too. But I believe this paper to be nothing more than a rank forgery.”
Phœbe stared at him with wide open eyes.
“You do, sir?”
“I certainly do. Elaine is bluffing, and the bluff might succeed if she had only a girl like you to deal with. You were quite right to come to me, Phœbe. I’ll agree to settle this controversy with Elaine.”
“How?” she asked, feeling much encouraged by his confident tone.
“H-m. I cannot say, as yet. I must have time to think. Why, it’s five o’clock,” looking at his watch. “Sit still! Don’t be in a hurry. Let’s figure a little; let’s—figure.”