“It strikes me you are a very shrewd young woman,” he said.
“It’s only logical common sense,” declared Trix stoutly.
Once more there fell a silence, a silence in which Nicholas was watching the girl opposite to him.
“Mr. Danver, will you tell me exactly what amusement you found in all this? What originated the idea in your mind?” Her voice was pleading.
For a moment Nicholas was silent.
“Yes,” he said suddenly, “I will tell you.”
It was not a long story, and to Trix it was oddly pathetic. It was the mixture partly of regret, partly the desire of justice to be administered to his property after his death, and partly the queer mad love of pranks which had been the keynote of his nature, and which had stirred again within the half-dead body. He told it all very simply, baldly almost, and yet he could not quite hide a certain queer wistfulness underlying it, the wistfulness of pride which has built barriers too strong for it, and yet from which it longs to escape.
“I thought Antony Gray could have a taste of living as one of the people,” he ended. “Perhaps it would make him a better master than I had been. And then the scheme took shape.”
“I see,” said Trix slowly and thoughtfully.
“Well?” queried Nicholas.