“Never mind, Floy, my own little wife,” whispered Espy, throwing a protecting arm about her and making her lean on him.
Then turning to his father, he stated the facts as succinctly as possible.
Mr. Alden listened with a grave and troubled air, and, when his son had finished, sat for some moments in silent cogitation.
“Well,” he said at length, “this is a rather bad business; and yet—perhaps not so bad as it looks. Floy, how many are in this secret—about your birth, I mean?”
“Our three selves only,” she answered.
“Good! very good!” he said, rubbing his hands with a complacent smile. “Your sex is not famed for ability to keep secrets, but I’ll trust you for this one.”
She gave him a look of surprised inquiry.
“So long as you are believed to be Mr. Kemper’s own child,” he went on to explain, “no one will dispute your right to the property, and it’s very considerable, Floy—worth taking some pains to secure.”
Her dark eyes opened wide upon him in half-incredulous, indignant surprise, but he gave her no opportunity to speak.
“And it is yours of right, for, as we all know, Mr. Kemper intended it for you, and you will only be fulfilling his wishes in retaining possession, which, as the old saying has it,” he added, with an unpleasant laugh, “is nine points of the law.”