"You have seen Millard?"
"No, I have not seen Millard."
"How could you know of my uncle's will, then? It was only executed last night."
"Never mind how I know it, my dear Reginald. I do know it. Let that be enough for you."
"It is too terrible," murmured the young man, after a pause; "it is too terrible."
"What is too terrible?"
"This sudden death."
"Is it?" cried Victor Carrington, looking full in his companion's face, with an expression of supreme scorn. "Would you rather have waited thirty years for these estates? Would you rather have waited twenty years?—ten years? No, Reginald Eversleigh, you would not. I know you better than you know yourself, and I will answer for you in this matter. If your uncle's life had lain in your open palm last night, and the closing of your hand would have ended it, your hand would have closed, Mr. Eversleigh, affectionate nephew though you be. You are a hypocrite, Reginald. You palter with your own conscience. Better to be like me and have no conscience, than to have one and palter with it as you do."
Reginald made no reply to this disdainful speech. His own weakness of character placed him entirely in the power of his friend. The two men walked on together in silence.
"You do not know all that has occurred since last night at the castle," said Reginald, at last; "Lady Eversleigh has reappeared."