“Everything depends upon them, I suppose?”
“Everything.”
“But I thought that it was a deed—just one paper?” she said.
“The actual instrument is a deed. This one!” He took it from the series as he untied the packet. “The other papers are of value as corroboration. They are letters, original letters, bearing on the preparation of the agreement. They were found all together as they are now, and in the same order. I did not disclose the letters to Audley, or to his lawyer, because I had not then gone through them; nor was it necessary to disclose them. I have since examined them, and they provide ample proof of the genuineness of the deed.”
“So that you think...?”
“I do not think that it can be contested. I am sure that it cannot—with success. And if it be admitted, your opponent’s case is gone. It was practically common ground in the former suit that if this agreement could be produced and proved his claim fell to the ground. Yours remains. I do not suppose,” Basset concluded, “that he will contest it, save as a matter of form.”
“I am sorry for him,” she said thoughtfully. And almost for the first time her eyes met his. But he was not responsive. He shrugged his shoulders. “He has had it long enough to feel the loss of it,” she continued, still bidding for his sympathy. “May I look at that now—the deed?” She held out her hand.
He gave it to her. It was a folded sheet of parchment, yellow with age and not very large, perhaps ten inches square. Three or four seals of green wax on ribbon ends dangled from it. It was written all over in a fine and curious penmanship, its initial letter adorned with a portrait of Queen Anne; altogether a pretty and delicate thing, but small—so small, she thought, to effect so great a change, to carry, to wreck, to make the fortunes of a house!
She handled it gently, almost fearfully, with awe and a little distaste. She turned it, she read the signatures. They were clear but faint. The ink had turned brown.
“Peter Paravicini Audley,” she murmured. “He must have signed it sadly, to save his wife, his cousin, a young girl, a girl of my age perhaps! To save her name!” There was a quaver in her voice. Basset moved uncomfortably.