“I’ll have nothin’ to do with it—nothin’!” stormed Martin. “You can bundle your paper right out of here, Benton. Rebuild that wall! Good God! Why, I wouldn’t do it if I was to be flayed alive. Ellen Webster knew that well enough. She was perfectly safe when she left me her property with that tag hitched to it. She did it as a joke—a cussed joke—out of pure deviltry. ’Twas like her, too. She couldn’t resist giving me one last jab, even if she had to wait till she was dead and gone to do it.”
Like an infuriated beast Martin tramped the floor. Mr. Benton did not speak for a few moments; then he observed mildly:
“You understand that if you refuse to accept the property it will be turned over to the county for a poor farm.”
“I don’t care who it’s turned over to, or what becomes of it,” blustered Martin.
The attorney rubbed his hands. Ah, it was a spirited drama,—quite as spirited as he had anticipated, and as interesting too.
“It’s pretty rough on the girl,” he at last remarked casually. 277
“The girl?”
“Miss Webster.”
Violently Martin came to himself. The fury of his anger had until now swept every other consideration from his mind.
“It will mean turning Miss Webster out of doors, of course,” continued Mr. Benton impassively. “Still she’s a thoroughbred, and I fancy nothing her aunt could do would surprise her. In fact, she as good as told me that, when she was at my office this morning.”