“I presume no one will care to question the will,” said Lady Wynde coldly, “although Sir Harold was in a very excited frame of mind that morning, on account of the news of his son’s illness, and the pain of leaving his home and me. Nevertheless, I dare say he was quite competent to dictate a will. I sent you the particulars of Sir Harold’s death, with some of the letters detailing the sad event which I have received from India. There being no possible doubt of his awful fate, it is time to prove his will. I wish you to give me some idea of its contents.” The solicitor drew out a long leathern pocket-book and took from it a neatly folded paper. “I have here a copy of the will,” he said briefly. “Is it your ladyship’s wish to have the will formally read, in the presence of witnesses?” “No, that is unnecessary. Leave out the usual useless preamble and tell me what disposition my husband made of his property--the freehold farms, the money in bank, the consols, the bonds and mortgages? All these he was free to leave to whom he pleased. I desire to know to whom he did leave them.” There was a greediness in the looks and tones of Lady Wynde that chilled Atkins. In her anxiety to learn the contents of the will, her ladyship half dropped her mask and displayed something of her true character, and he was quick to read it. “Sir Harold Wynde, in expectation of the death of his son and heir,” replied Atkins, in his most formal tones, “bequeathed all the property you have mentioned, all his real and personal property, to his daughter, Miss Neva Wynde.” “All to her?” muttered Lady Wynde. “_All_, you say?” “All, my lady. Miss Wynde also inherits Hawkhurst and the entailed property. She is one of the richest heiresses in England.” “And--and my name is not mentioned?” “Sir Harold declares that you are provided for by the terms of the marriage settlement. You have Wynde Heights for your dower house and four thousand pounds a year during your life, with no restrictions in regard to a second marriage--a very liberal provision I consider it.” “And a very shabby one I consider it,” cried Lady Wynde, with a black frown. “Sir Harold’s daughter seventy thousand pounds a year, and I have a paltry four. It is a shame, a miserable, burning shame!” “It is unjust, scandalous!” muttered Artress. “Sir Harold thought the sum sufficient, and I must say I agree with him,” declared Atkins. “Your ladyship was contented with the provision at your marriage. If the allowance was unsatisfactory, why did you not expostulate with Sir Harold at that time? Why wait until he is dead to accuse him of injustice?” “We will not argue the matter,” said Lady Wynde superciliously. “I shall not contest the will. And now about my rich young step-daughter. Who are her appointed guardians?” There was a perceptible anxiety in her manner, which Atkins noticed with some wonder. He referred to his copy of the will, which was open in his hands.