“Yes,” he reiterated, “Miss Webster has made you her sole legatee.”
Martin regarded his visitor stupidly. 275
“I reckon there’s some mistake, sir,” he contrived to stammer.
“No, there isn’t—there’s no mistake. The will was legally drawn up only a few days before the death of the deceased. No possible question can be raised as to her sanity, or the clearness of her wishes concerning her property. She desired everything to come to you.”
“Let me see the paper!” cried Martin.
“I should prefer to read it to you.”
Slowly Mr. Benton took out his spectacles, polished, and adjusted them. Then with impressive deliberation he drew forth and unfolded with a mighty rustling the last will and testament of Ellen Webster, spinster. Many a time he had mentally rehearsed this scene, and now he presented it with a dignity that amazed and awed. Every whereas and aforesaid rolled out with due majesty, its resonance echoing to the ceiling of the chilly little parlor.
As Martin listened, curiosity gave place to wonder, wonder to indignation. But when at last the concluding condition of the bequest was reached, the rebuilding of the wall, an oath burst from his lips.
“The harpy!” he shouted. “The insolent hell hag!” 276
“Softly, my dear sir, softly!” pleaded Mr. Benton in soothing tones.