“Is he really dead, then?” she asked politely.
“Most certainly; he died on the fifth, and Mrs. Baines——”
“She is much too ill to see anybody; and as I understand he burnt his will, and has not left her any money, it is hardly worth while to worry her with particulars of his unlamented death.”
“Burnt his will? Yes, for some extraordinary reason he did—so Charles, the man-servant, tells me—he did it in her presence. He had no time to make another, for the agitation caused by her visit killed him.”
“Or perhaps it was the mercy of Providence,” remarked Mrs. North.
Mr. Boughton did not heed the remark, but asked—
“May I inquire if you are in Mrs. Baines’s confidence?”
“Entirely,” she answered decisively.
“Then I may tell you that no former will has been found, and she is next-of-kin. There are no other relations at all, I believe, and she will therefore inherit about three times as much as if the burnt will had remained in existence.”
“Really!”—and Mrs. North clapped her hands for joy. And then the tears came into her eyes. “Oh, but it is too late, for she is dying; nothing can save her; she is dying. I have telegraphed to her nephew and niece to come back from Monte Carlo. She has had a terrible shock, from which she will never recover; and besides that she has virtually starved herself and taken a hundred colds. She has not the strength of a fly left. I know she is dying,” Mrs. North added, with almost a sob.