Jim nodded.
“Well, he had his fight, and he did his bit, and, seeing how he felt about things, I’m glad for his sake that he went out,” he said. “Only I’m sorry for us, because it was a pretty big thing to be friends with a man like that. Anyhow, we won’t forget him. We wouldn’t even without this astonishing legacy of Norah’s.”
“Have you any particulars about it?” Wally asked.
“Dad got a letter from O’Neill too—both were sent to his lawyers; he must have posted them himself that evening in Carrignarone. Dad’s was only business. The place is really left to him, in trust for Norah, until she comes of age; that’s so that there wouldn’t be any legal bother about her taking possession of it at once if she wants to. Poor old Norah’s just about bowled over. She felt O’Neill’s death so awfully, and now this has brought it all back.”
“Yes, it’s rough on Norah,” Wally said. “I expect she hates taking the place.”
“She can’t bear the idea of it. Dad and I don’t much care about it either.”
Wally pondered.
“May I see that letter again?” he asked presently.
Jim Linton took out the letter and handed it to his friend. He filled his pipe leisurely and lit it, while Wally knitted his brows over the sheet of cheap hotel paper. Presently he looked up, a flash of eagerness in his keen brown eyes.
“Well, I think O’Neill left that place to Norah with a purpose,” he said. “I don’t believe it’s just an ordinary legacy. Of course, it’s hers, all right; but don’t you think he wanted something done with it?”