“He was your first cousin. You may know him better as the son of Mr. Horace Errington.”
“Oh! The son of my mother’s brother? We never knew him. There was a family feud.”
“But you will remember to have heard that his father made great wealth in the Abruzzi through copper mines, was nationalised, and was ennobled by Victor Emmanuel. The family feud was chiefly on account of his connection with commerce and his change of country.”
“Precisely.”
“I regret to inform you that your cousin is dead, at thirty-three years of age, killed by a wild boar when hunting in the Pontine marshes; he has left you, Mr. Bertram, his sole and exclusive heir.”
Bertram stares at him.
“What! you must be joking, Mr. Folliott!”
The old gentleman takes off his gold spectacles and puts them on again in extreme irritation.
“I am not in the habit of joking, sir, either in business or outside it. We were solicitors to his father and to himself. We drew up this will five years ago. You are inheritor of an immense fortune, Mr. Bertram.”
Bertram stands staring at him, then turns to Fanshawe. “Do you hear? Is it true? Surely, no one could insult me so greatly, even in jest?”