On his side he was very quiet for some minutes. Neither Kathleen nor Philippa heard a curious sound—a sort of smothered exclamation—which escaped him. Nor did his sister notice that he had left his seat and was standing beside her, till he touched her on the arm.
'Kathie,' he said, and his voice sounded strange and almost hoarse, and Kathie, looking up, saw that he was deadly pale.
'Oh, Neville,' she exclaimed, 'what is the matter? Have you swallowed a needle?'
He could scarcely help smiling.
'Nonsense, Kathie,' he said. 'Nothing's the matter. It is this,' and he held out a sheet of note-paper, with some writing on it. The paper looked rather yellow, and was marked here and there at the edges as if it had been stitched. 'This is the paper that was in my pincushion, just like the others. It was meant to have the date upon it, I suppose. But it isn't that—look what it is instead. I can scarcely believe it. I feel as if I was dreaming. I want you to read the words.'
And Kathie read—though with some difficulty, for she too felt as if she were dreaming, and the lines danced before her eyes. They were very few, however, and very legible, in Mrs. Wynne's clear, precise handwriting.
'My will, and some other papers of less importance, will be found in the plate-chest—containing the best silver—underneath the lining of green baize in the bottom of the box. The lining is only tacked in and will be easily removed.
'Davida Wynne.'
Kathie, without speaking, turned the sheet of paper round. On the other side was written, what Neville had not noticed, a date, 'Ty-gwyn, May 15th, 1859,' just as there had been in the other pincushions, only this was an older one.
Kathie's eyes sparkled, and the power of speech seemed to return to her.