"Well, that won't do you any good."
"Oh, won't it? Plainly, you don't know much about Florida law, my good Guy. I'm your cousin. Don't forget that. And by the law of this State I'm your next heir. See? When you've left this vale of tears I come in for the whole outfit—your grove and everything. Now, perhaps, you'll sing another song."
Guy's face went white. Not with fear, but anger. And his gray eyes blazed with a sudden fury that made the other step hastily backward.
"You mean, skulking hound!" he cried. "You're worse—a thousand times worse—than that fellow who lies dead there. Get out of my sight before I kill you."
Oliver's eyes had the look of a vicious cur. "All right," he snarled. "You'll change your tune before I'm done with you. If you don't fork up the cash by this time to-morrow I'll go and give the sheriff a full and particular account of how you murdered Harvey Blissett."
"What's de matter, boss. Warn't dat supper cooked to suit you?"
"Supper was first-rate, Rufe. Only I've got no appetite," replied Guy.
"You done seem plumb disgruntled 'bout something ebber since you come in dis evening," said Rufus, Guy's faithful negro retainer.
Guy looked at the man's sympathetic face. He felt a longing to talk over the black business with somebody, and Rufe, he knew, would never repeat a word to any one else.