“Now I do recklect somethin’ about that caset,” the Tinsmith interposed. “It was a fight over a bit o’ property an’ a girl.”
“Exact,” said the Loafer.
“Well, how d’ye know it’s so?” the Miller asked. “Because it’s in the paper is no sign it’s true.”
“See here,” was the sharp reply, “do you s’pose ’hen they is so much in this world that’s true the editor o’ The Home an’ Fireplace ’ud go to the trouble o’ makin’ up lies to print? Why, it wouldn’t pay.”
The Miller was about to argue against this proposition, but the Patriarch leaned over and laid a hand on his knee, checking him.
“Jest wait tell we find out who got the property,” the old man said.
“An’ the girl,” cried the Tinsmith.
“That’s jest what I’ve ben tryin’ to find out,” said the Loafer. Forthwith he plunged into the history of Reginald Devereux and Lord Desmond. “You see I found the paper on the counter yesterday ez I was waitin’ for the mail. I remember now ’most everything that was in that piecet, an’ most a mighty puzzlin’ piecet it was, too. It begin at a placet called Fairfax Castel, which was the home o’ Alice Fairfax, who the paper sayd was most tremendous good-lookin’, bein’ tall an’ willowy, with gold-colored hair an’ what it called p-a-t-r-i-c-i-a-n cast o’ features. She was twenty year old an’ hed an income o’ ten thousand pound a year.”
“Pound o’ what?” inquired the Patriarch.
“The paper didn’t tell. It jest sayd pound.”