“Will you show me that paper, and any other documents relating to your husband’s family? I know I have no right to ask such a favour; but all I can say is that I shall be very grateful if you will so far oblige me.”
The table d’hôte was in full swing in the adjoining room, as testified by the clattering of plates and the jingle of knives and forks, and a subdued murmur as of a good many confidential conversations carried on simultaneously.
“You want to see my poor Fred’s private papers,” said the widow, meditatively. “That’s a good deal to ask; not that there are any secrets in them that can hurt anybody above ground. The Colonel is dead, and his sister. My husband was the last. But I can’t understand why anybody should want to pry into a dead man’s papers, unless there’s property hanging to them.”
She looked at Theodore suspiciously, as if she could not divest herself of the idea of a fortune having turned up somehow, unexpectedly; a fortune to which her dead husband was entitled.
“There is no property, I assure you. It is a question of sentiment, not of money.”
“You’re a lawyer, I suppose?” said Coralie, still suspiciously.
She supposed that it was only lawyers who went about prying into the affairs of the dead.
“I am a lawyer; but the business which brings me to Jersey is not law business.”
“Well, I don’t see how any harm can come to me through your seeing my husband’s papers. There’s not many to see—a few letters from the Colonel, and two or three from a lawyer about the legacy, and a dozen or so from old friends, refusing or sending him money. You’ve spoken kindly to me, and I’ve felt that you could sympathize with me, though you’re a stranger—so—well—you may see his letters, though it hurts me to touch anything that belonged to him, le pauvre homme.”
She took a bunch of keys from her pocket, unlocked the little secretaire, and from one of the drawers produced a bundle of old letters and cuttings from newspapers, which she handed to Theodore Dalbrook, and then seated herself opposite to him, planted her elbows on the table, and watched him while he read, keenly on the alert for any revelation of his purpose which might escape him in the course of his reading. She had not altogether relinquished that idea of an inheritance, or legacy—property of some kind—involved in this endeavour to trace a dead man’s history. The explanation which Theodore had given had not convinced her. He had confessed himself a lawyer, and that was in itself enough to make her doubt him.