Part 38 (1/2)

The dynamic shock behind the words sent the man to his feet.

Mr. Benton nodded calmly.

”Yes,” he reiterated, ”Miss Webster has made you her sole legatee.”

Martin regarded his visitor stupidly.

”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 rehea.r.s.ed 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 h.e.l.l hag!”

”Softly, my dear sir, softly!” pleaded Mr. Benton in soothing tones.

”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 G.o.d!

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,” bl.u.s.tered Martin.

The attorney rubbed his hands. Ah, it was a spirited drama,--quite as spirited as he had antic.i.p.ated, and as interesting too.

”It's pretty rough on the girl,” he at last remarked casually.

”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 impa.s.sively. ”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.”

”She knows, then?”

”Yes, I had to tell her, poor thing. I imagine, too, it hit her pretty hard, for she had been given to understand that everything was to be hers.