"I know nothing except what my father has told me. He remained what he called 'true to his art' to the end of his life, and never forgave his brother for turning his back on it."
"Pardon my putting to you a somewhat delicate question. Did your father make much money by his painting?"
"Much money!" The girl's lip curled. "When he died there was just enough left to keep my mother till she died."
"And then?"
"I came to London in search of fortune."
"And found it?"
"Do I look as if I had--in this attic, which contains all that I have in the world? No; fortune does not come to such as I am. I should be tolerably content if I were sure of daily bread. But why do you ask such questions? Why do you pry into my private affairs? I am not conscious of a desire to thrust them on your notice--or on anyone's."
"Miss Arnott, I beg that you will not suppose that I am actuated by common curiosity. Let me explain the situation in half-a-dozen words. Your Uncle Septimus, after he left your father, went to South America. There, after divers adventures, he went in for cattle breeding. In that pursuit he amassed one of those large fortunes which are characteristic of modern times. Eventually he came to England, bought a property, settled himself on it, and there died. We acted as his legal advisers. He left his whole property to his brother Sextus; or, in the event of his brother predeceasing him, to his brother's children. You must understand that he himself lived and died a bachelor. His own death occurred three years ago."
"My father also died three years ago--on the 18th of March."
"This is very remarkable, Miss Arnott; they must have died on the same day!"