“Yes,” said John quietly.
“Oh, ’tis a pretty boggle,” went on Father Maloney, “it is that. This fella, this David Delancey arrives from Africa——”
“Africa!” interrupted John. “I heard he was an American?”
“Well, ’tis Africa he has come from,” said Father Maloney. “He arrives as cool as a cucumber. ‘I’m the rightful owner of this place,’ says he in a letter to Lady Mary. ‘I’ve every proof, and send copies of them.’ ’Tis a long rigmarole how he got hold of them. Of course there was a lawyers’ investigation. That’s been going on for months. But ’tis proved now beyond no manner of doubt that he is the direct descendant of that scoundrel Henry, and not a scrap of legal proof have we got on our side that Henry ever renounced the claim to the property. There’s the whole business. Lady Mary got the letter from the lawyer fellas this morning. ’Tis full of their jargon, but the meaning is plain enough through it all. David Delancey is the rightful heir, and no vestige of right has this little Antony here to stick or stone of the old place.”
Father Maloney stopped.
“It’s—it’s preposterous!” ejaculated John hotly.
Father Maloney smiled, an untranslatable, an enigmatic smile.
“When does he take possession?” demanded John.
“Oh, he’s written a decent enough letter,” responded Father Maloney. “He says there can be time enough taken for the handing over of the property. ‘Take six months, or a year about it, for that matter,’ says he. He’ll be coming down here in a day or so to the inn to look around and get the hang of affairs, though he’s in no way anxious to intrude.”
“Intrude!” snorted the wrathful John.