"Precisely what I say. On conditions, of course. It depends on yourself. But you were brought into this house by a strange chance—you happen to suit me—to interest me. 'Provvy' as Bentham would say, seems to point to you. Here—in this drawer"—he brought his hand down strongly on the writing table—"is a will which I wrote last night. It leaves the whole of my property to you, subject to certain directions as to the works of art—to a provision for old Dixon, and so on. You can't witness it, of course, nor can Dixon; otherwise it might be signed to-night. But if we come to an understanding to-night, I can sign it to-morrow morning and get a couple of men from the farm to witness it. I think I can promise to live so long!"
There was silence. With an uncertain, swaying movement Melrose returned to his chair. The physical weakness betrayed by the action was strangely belied, however, by his imperious aspect, as of an embodied Will. His eyes never left Faversham, even while he rested heavily on the table before him for support.
Suddenly, Faversham, who had been sitting pale and motionless, looked up.
"Mr. Melrose—have you no natural heirs?"
Melrose could not altogether disguise the shock of the question. He threw himself back, however, with a smile.
"You have been listening I see to the stories that people tell."
Faversham bent forward and spoke earnestly: "I understand that your wife and child left you twenty years ago. Are they still living?"
Melrose shrugged his shoulders. "Whether they are or not, really matters nothing at all either to you or me: Mrs. Melrose left this house of her own free will. That ended the connection between us. In any case, you need have no alarm. There is no entail—even were there a son, and there never was a son. I do what I will with my own. There is no claim on me—there would be no claim on you."
"There must be—there would be—a moral claim!"
The colour rushed into Melrose's face. He drummed the table impatiently.