“But certainly,” exclaimed the Frenchman, “it being well understood that I am not to suffer by this candour. It is understood that I am innocent in this affair.”
“Innocent!” cried Launcelot Darrell, bitterly. “Why, you were the prime mover in this business. It was your suggestion that first induced——”
“It is possible, my friend,” murmured Monsieur Bourdon, complacently; “but is it, then, a crime to make a little suggestion—to try to make oneself useful to a friend? I do not believe it! No matter, I have studied your English law: I do not think it can touch me, since I am only prepared to swear to having found this real will, and having before that overheard a conversation between you and the clerk of the avoué de Vindsor.”
“You use noble tools, Mrs. Monckton,” said Launcelot Darrell; “but I do not know by what right you come into my house, uninvited, and bringing in your train a very respectable transpontine scene-painter with whom I have not the honour to be intimate, and a French commercial traveller, who has chosen to make himself peculiarly obnoxious to me. It is for the Court of Chancery to decide whether I am the rightful owner of this house and all appertaining to it. I shall await the fiat of that court; and in the meantime have the honour to wish you good evening.”
He laid his hand upon the handle of the bell as he spoke, but he did not pull it.
“You defy me, then, Launcelot Darrell?” said Eleanor.
“I do.”
“I am glad that it is so!” exclaimed the girl. “I am glad that you have not prayed to me for mercy. I am glad that Providence has suffered me to avenge my father’s death.”
Eleanor Monckton was moving towards the door.
In all this time Ellen Darrell had not once spoken. She had stood apart in the recess of the window, a dark and melancholy shadow, mourning over the ruin of her life.