"Nobody cares how he treated you and your mother," interposed Leo.
"Allow me to contradict you, Leo. I care; my mother cares; and every person who loves justice and fairness cares."
In spite of several very pointed hints from André, Maggie, and Leo, that they did not care to bear the story, Fitz persisted in telling it, and did tell it. He declared it was his solemn conviction that Mr. Checkynshaw had wronged his mother out of the block of stores, and ten years' income of the same, for which he had paid her the petty consideration of ten thousand dollars. Fitz had heard from his mother the narrative of the second Mrs. Checkynshaw's sickness, and of the sickness of little Marguerite, who had been taken to the cholera hospital; and he related it all in the most painfully minute manner.
"That child was the heir of my grandfather's property," continued Fitz, eloquently; for he was still burning under the sense of his own wrongs. "If that child died, the block of stores, according to my grandfather's will, was to come to my mother. That child did die, in my opinion."
"What makes you think so?" asked André, interested, in spite of himself, in the story.
"What makes me think so?" repeated Mr. Wittleworth, magnificently. "Am I a man of ordinary common sense? Have I lived to attain my present stature without growing wiser with every day of life I lived? Of what avail are my judgment, my knowledge, and my experience, if I cannot penetrate a sham so transparent as this? What makes me think so? Does a man of wealth and influence leave his own child among strangers, in a foreign land, for ten years? No! I repeat it, no!"
"You say the child was sent to the cholera hospital?" asked André, nervously.
"She was; but in my opinion she died there."
"O, she died there—did she?" said André, with apparent relief.
"Checkynshaw says she did not die; I say she did."