“It seems to me the most improbable story in the world,” said Gerald reflectively. “Mrs. Manning should have inherited that property.”
“She would have, but for the incontestable proofs which Mrs. Brewster presented; even had Allison lived, she would have won the suit,” returned John Hubbard, searching his companion’s pale, thin face with his cruel eyes. He was secretly gloating over every stab that he was giving him.
“It is a mystery to me that she never put in an appearance while Mr. Brewster was living,” the young man mused. “I suppose, however, there must have been something questionable in her life or claim, and she did not dare to. And you acted as her counsel?”
“I did.”
“That seems to me the strangest proceeding of all.”
“Well, and what are you going to do about it?” was the sneering demand; and for a moment the two men stood absolutely motionless, gazing into each other’s eyes—one with a look of dogged defiance, the other with a stern, searching, accusing expression.
“I cannot understand your doing such a thing as that, Mr. Hubbard,” Gerald remarked, his tone plainly indicating that he believed there had been foul play.
“Probably not,” was the curt, ironic retort, “and I do not know that it is necessary that you should understand it. I was the administrator of the Brewster estate, and when it was proved that there wasn’t a drop of Brewster blood in Allison’s veins, there is nothing so very remarkable about the fact that I conducted the transfer of the property—especially after the death of Allison, who might, perhaps, have contested the woman’s claim upon the ground that a will had been made in her favor, though that would easily have been broken.”
“What were these proofs that Allison was not Mr. Brewster’s own daughter?”
“Oh, some clothing and some letters that were found in a box——”