Part 36 (2/2)

”The signatures are genuine,” he said, with business-like brevity; then he added, as if in explanation of that brevity, ”I have seen it before.”

Donna Dolores moved her chair with the least show of uneasiness. The movement attracted Mr. Perkins' attention. It was something novel. Here was a woman who appeared actually annoyed that her claim to a valuable property was valid. He fixed his eyes upon her curiously.

”Then you think it is a genuine grant?” she said, with a slight sigh.

”As genuine as any that receive a patent at Was.h.i.+ngton,” he replied, promptly.

”Ah!” said Donna Dolores, simply. The feminine interjection appeared to put a construction upon Senor Perkins' reply that both annoyed and challenged him. He a.s.sumed the defensive.

”Have you any reason to doubt the genuineness of this particular doc.u.ment?”

”Yes. It was only recently discovered among Don Jose's papers, and there is another in existence.”

Senor Perkins again reached out his hand, took the paper, examined it attentively, held it to the light and then laid it down. ”It is all right,” he said. ”Where is the other?”

”I have it not,” said Donna Dolores.

Senor Perkins shrugged his shoulders respectfully as to Donna Dolores, but scornfully of an unbusiness-like s.e.x. ”How did you expect me to inst.i.tute a comparison?”

”There is no comparison necessary if that doc.u.ment is genuine,” said the Donna, quickly.

Senor Perkins was embarra.s.sed for a moment. ”I mean there might be some mistake. Under what circ.u.mstances is it held--who holds it? To whom was it given?”

”That is a part of my story. It was given five years ago to a Dr.

Devarges--I beg your pardon, did you speak?”

Senor Perkins had not spoken, but was staring with grim intensity at Donna Dolores. ”You--said--Dr. Devarges,” he repeated, slowly.

”Yes. Did you know him?” It was Donna Dolores' turn to be embarra.s.sed.

She bit her lip and slightly contracted her eyebrows. For a moment they both stood on the defensive.

”I have heard the name before,” Mr. Perkins said at last, with a forced laugh.

”Yes, it is the name of a distinguished _savant_,” said Donna Dolores, composedly. ”Well--_he_ is dead. But he gave this grant to a young girl named--named”--Dolores paused as if to recall the name--”named Grace Conroy.”

She stopped and raised her eyes quickly to her companion, but his face was unmoved, and his momentary excitement seemed to have pa.s.sed. He nodded his head for her to proceed.

”Named Grace Conroy,” repeated Donna Dolores, more rapidly, and with freer breath. ”After the lapse of five years a woman--an impostor--appears to claim the grant under the name of Grace Conroy. But perhaps finding difficulty in carrying out her infamous scheme, by some wicked, wicked art, she gains the affections of the brother of this Grace, and marries him as the next surviving heir.” And Donna Dolores paused, a little out of breath, with a glow under her burnished cheek and a slight metallic quality in her voice. It was perhaps no more than the natural indignation of a quickly sympathising nature, but Mr.

Perkins did not seem to notice it. In fact, within the last few seconds his whole manner had become absent and preoccupied; the stare which he had fixed a moment before on Donna Dolores was now turned to the wall, and his old face, under its juvenile mask, looked still older.

”Certainly, certainly,” he said at last, recalling himself with an effort. ”But all this only goes to prove that the grant may be as fraudulent as the owner. Then, you have nothing really to make you suspicious of your own claim but the fact of its recent discovery? Well, that I don't think need trouble you. Remember your grant was given when lands were not valuable, and your late father might have overlooked it as unimportant.” He rose with a slight suggestion in his manner that the interview had closed. He appeared anxious to withdraw, and not entirely free from the same painful pre-absorption that he had lately shown. With a slight shade of disappointment in her face Donna Dolores also rose.

In another moment he would have been gone, and the lives of these two people thus brought into natural yet mysterious contact have flowed on unchanged in each monotonous current. But as he reached the door he turned to ask a trivial question. On that question trembled the future of both.

”This real Grace Conroy then I suppose has disappeared. And this--Doctor--Devarges”--he hesitated at the name as something equally fict.i.tious--”you say is dead. How then did this impostor gain the knowledge necessary to set up the claim? Who is _she_?”

”Oh, she is--that is--she married Gabriel Conroy under the name of the widow of Dr. Devarges. Pardon me! I did not hear what you said. Holy Virgin! What is the matter? You are ill. Let me call Sanchez! Sit here!”

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