"He informed me then," proceeded Sir Francis, "that he had made his Will. The Will is here,"—and he took up a document lying on his desk—"The manner of its execution coincides precisely with the letter of instructions received, as I say, from Exeter—of course it will have to be formally proved——"
She lifted her eyes wonderingly.
"What is it to me?" she said—"I have nothing to do with it. I have brought you the papers—but I am sorry—oh, so sorry to hear that he was not what he made himself out to be! I cannot think of him in the same way——"
Sir Francis drew his chair closer to hers.
"Is it possible," he said—"Is it possible, my dear Miss Deane, that you do not understand?"
She gazed at him candidly.
"Yes, of course I understand," she said—"I understand that he was a rich man who played the part of a poor one—to see if any one would care for him just for himself alone—and—I—I—did care—oh, I did care!—and now I feel as if I couldn't care any more——"
Her voice broke sobbingly, and Sir Francis Vesey grew desperate.
"Don't cry!" he said—"Please don't cry! I should not be able to bear it! You see I'm a business man"—here he took off his spectacles and rubbed them vigorously—"and my position is that of the late Mr. David Helmsley's solicitor. In that position I am bound to tell you the straight truth—because I'm afraid you don't grasp it at all. It is a very overwhelming thing for you,—but all the same, I am sure, quite sure, that my old friend had reason to rely confidently upon your strength of character—as well as upon your affection for him——"
She had checked her sobs and was looking at him steadily.