“I do not care much, Aunt Gainor, except that—”
“I know,” she cried; “anybody else might have it, but not Arthur.”
“Yes; unless Darthea—”
“I understand, sir; and now I see it all. The elder brother will die. The father is old, the estate valuable, and this lying scamp with his winning ways will be master of Wyncote, and with a clear title if your father is able to bring it about. He can, Hugh, unless—”
“What, aunt?”
“Unless you intervene on account of my brother’s mental state.”
“That I will never do! Never!”
“Then you will lose it.”
“Yes; it must go. I care but little, aunt.”
“But I do, sir. You are Wynne of Wyncote.”