CHAPTER XV A STARTLING LETTER After Mrs. Walker's portentous visit to Rose Cottage with her lawyer, things went on quietly for some days. Mr. Hale at first positively refused to speak on the subject of the cross and the fortune attached thereto, as he maintained that it was useless to talk about impossibilities. Then he changed his mind and spoke with extraordinary freedom. "Nothing can be done until we find the amethyst cross," he said gloomily to his daughter, "when that is produced, the money will be forthcoming." "But you forget, father, that the cross has to be produced by Mrs. Walker's nephew or niece," said Lesbia doubtfully. "She hasn't got one," snapped Hale. "If there was a child, it is dead. I know that no child was brought to my house at Wimbledon by Kate Morse." "Mrs. Walker said that was her sister's maiden name. Do you know the name of the man she married?" "Yes." Hale cast a jealous side-glance at his daughter. "It's an old story and a long one." "Which has to do with Mrs. Walker's enmity against you?" persisted Lesbia. "Yes," said Hale again. "She thought that I had something to do with her sister's elopement. Such rubbish, as though I could have helped it." "Why did Miss Morse run away, then?" "Because of her father. He was a wealthy, old, psalm-singing idiot, who made the two girls wretched. Kate fell in love with a certain friend of mine--I am not going to mention his name--and old Morse told him that he was not to come near the house. Then Kate took the bit between her teeth and ran away with the man. She had a miserable life, I believe, but I saw nothing of her until she stumbled foot-sore and weary into my house at Wimbledon. The rest you know." "And the money?" asked Lesbia anxiously. "You heard all that is to be said on that subject when Mrs. Walker was here," growled Hale, who was more communicative than usual. "But I'll repeat the story, because I wish to make a suggestion." "What is the suggestion?" asked the girl, who mistrusted the uneasy looks of her father. "First the story and then the suggestion," he remarked grimly. "Well, it can scarcely be called a story. Samuel Morse, the psalm-singing old ass I told you of, had a hundred thousand pounds, two daughters, and no son. He made a will leaving the money equally divided between them, and after death the money if not used up was to go to their heirs. Judith--Mrs. Walker that is--married a scampish man-about-town, who soon got through all she had and then broke his neck in a steeplechase, leaving Judith with next to nothing upon which to bring up George. Kate, having eloped with the man whose name I don't wish to mention, did not claim her share of the cash." "If Mr. Morse was so angry I wonder he did not alter his will."