"There is only one drawback," he said.
"And that is—"
"That you may have to wait a very long time for your inheritance. Let me see; your uncle is fifty years of age, I think?"
"Yes; he is about fifty." "And he has an iron constitution. He has led a temperate, hardy life. Such a man is as likely to live to be eighty as I am to see my fortieth birthday. And that would give you thirty years' waiting: a long delay—a terrible trial of patience."
"Why do you say these things?" cried Reginald, impatiently. "Do you want to make me miserable in the hour of our triumph? Do you mean that we have burdened our souls with all this crime and falsehood for nothing? You are mad, Victor!"
"No; I am only in a speculative mood. Thirty years!—thirty years would be a long time to wait."
"Who says that I shall have to wait thirty years? My uncle may die long before that time."
"Ah! to be sure! your uncle may die—suddenly, perhaps—very soon, it may be. The shock of his wife's falsehood may kill him—after he has made a new will in your favour!"
The two men stood face to face, looking at each other.
"What do you mean?" Reginald asked; "and why do you look at me like that?"