Miriam was not following closely Corbin’s jumbled accounts of the provisions of Paul’s will, which Mr. Corcoran had explained to Martha and to him at the close of the reading of the will.
“Who lies in this suicide’s grave?” she asked suddenly, and the question took Corbin by surprise.
“Mr. Alan’s grandfather.”
“And his name?” with a persistence which surprised herself as well as Corbin.
“’Cordin’ to the headstone his name was Mason, too.” Talking to an extremely pretty woman was a novel sensation and Corbin was commencing to enjoy himself. “There’s a saying in these parts that he stole some money when he was ’zecutor to a friend’s will and killed heself when found out. The niggers buried him, as you see. Mr. Alan ain’t got much call to be proud of his gran’-dad.”
“But I don’t think he will approve of your digging into his grave,” Miriam stated quietly, “for ivy.”
Corbin’s lips curled back viciously over his yellow teeth. “He ain’t goin’ to hear of it,” his voice grew low and menacing. “Not from you, anyway.”
“Why not?”
He came a step nearer and his breath was unpleasantly close. “I gave the bloodstained sheet to Sheriff Trenholm,” he whispered.
Miriam stared at him, open-eyed. “The bloodstained sheet!” she echoed. “What are you talking about?”