A scared look broke over Aunt Anne’s face; and she watched the proceedings breathlessly.
“Lock the safe and go—no, stop—give me some brandy first.”
The servant poured a little into a glass from a bottle which stood on the writing-table between the windows. The old man’s hand shook while he took it. Aunt Anne, looking at him like a culprit waiting for punishment, noticed a blackness round his mouth, and that the lines in his face were rigid.
“Shall I bring you some chicken-broth, Sir William?” the servant asked.
“When I ring. Go.” Then he turned to Aunt Anne. “Now I will tell you why this young man loved you.” He said the last words with an almost fiendish chuckle. “He loved you because, being a clerk in his uncle’s office, the office from which he had to be kicked, he probably knew—in fact, I am certain that he knew, for he came to ask me your Christian name when the instructions were being given—that I had provided for you in my will. I do not choose to pauperize people while I live, but I considered it my duty to leave some portion of my wealth to my relations, no matter how small a claim they had upon me. He knew that you would get a fourth share of my money—probably he reckoned it up and calculated that it would amount to a good many thousand pounds, so he and Boughton concocted a scheme to get hold of it together.”
“Mr. Boughton knew nothing of our marriage.”
“I tell you it was all a scheme. What should Boughton allow you a hundred a year for?” He was grasping the will while he spoke.
“He knew nothing about it, William—neither did Alfred.”
“Well, we’ll put his disinterestedness to the test”—and he tried to tear the will in half, but his fingers were too weak.
“Oh no,” she cried; “no—no——”