“I know your child,” said Lord Grayleigh, in a very grave tone; “she is out of the common.”
A spasm of pain crossed the father’s face.
“She is,” he answered slowly. “I wish to make a provision for her. If I die (I may die, we are all mortal; I am going to a distant place; possibilities in favor of death are ten per cent. greater than if I remain at home)—if I die, this will be hers. It will comfort me, and make it absolutely impossible for me to go back. You understand that sometimes a miserable starved voice within me speaks. I allude to the voice of conscience. However much it clamors, I cannot listen to it when that sum of money lies in the bank to my credit, with my last will and testament leaving it eventually to my daughter.”
“I would not give your daughter such a portion, if I were you,” thought Lord Grayleigh, but he did not say the words aloud. He said instead, “What you wish shall be done.”
The two men talked a little longer together. Certain necessary arrangements were concluded, and Ogilvie bore in his pocket before he left a check for ten thousand pounds on Lord Grayleigh’s private account.
“This clinches matters,” he said, and he gave a significant glance at Grayleigh.
“You will see Spielmann for all the rest,” was Grayleigh’s answer; “and now, if you must catch the train——”
“Yes, I must; good-by.”
Lord Grayleigh walked with him as far as the porch.