"Yes," he said, "you are right, there was; I've had a telegram from home. I've been turning it over in my mind as I came along."
"That's rather odd, because this morning I had quite a packet of English letters. Just look at them. From whom is your telegram?"
"From Carr and Phillips, the Aversham lawyers. George is dead."
"Your brother--dead! Sydney! When did he die?"
"The telegram says--here it is--'Your brother, Sir George Beaton, died suddenly this morning. Letter follows.' That's all, except their name; it's rather a facer. I haven't seen George for----"
He paused, as if searching in his mind for an exact date.
"It's more than seven years since we left England."
"Yes, nearly eight years. You remember, we were talking about it only the other day. More than once lately I've had a feeling that I should like to see him again; and now he's gone. He wasn't exactly the most affectionate of brothers, though I dare say he would have said the same of me; but he was all I had; the last Beaton of them all."
"What will become of Adisham?"
"It's mine, since he never married; that's another facer; the old house is mine, and it will be our Sydney's when I'm gone. The whole property, such as it is, goes to the next male heir; under the old entail women don't count. No feminine thing has ever had Adisham, or ever will."