"Of course you did," he replied smoothly. "You don't seem to understand me--a cheque is generally supposed to be signed on the day it is dated; and as this is dated the thirtieth, and the Squire died on the twelfth--well--it's so much waste paper." "The lawyers will pay it when I explain the circumstances." "The lawyers have nothing to do with it--the executors might, certainly, recognize it as a claim against the estate, but it is entirely optional with them; if you brought an action, you would, no doubt, recover on the cheque, but I'm afraid the costs would swallow up the amount claimed." It was in order to get her to consent to join in his scheme that Beaumont thus argued in such a subtle manner, and he certainly succeeded in his plan; for, by taking away her last chance, he reduced her to despair. "Then I can do nothing to help my son?" she cried, with a terrible expression of anguish on her face. "Yes, you can--help me to get Reginald the property." "I'm afraid." "Afraid of what?" he asked, with supreme contempt, "the law?" "No!--I'm not afraid of the law--but I am afraid of the curse this money will be to Reginald, if it's unlawfully obtained." "Oh, if that is all your objection, I think you can set your mind at rest," replied the artist, with a sneer. "I'll help him to spend the money, and take my share of the curse. Don't talk rubbish--by putting Reginald in possession of ten thousand a year you will be harming no one--the money which should rightfully become Una Challoner's will still become hers by marriage, and two people will be made happy--if you will not help me, I'll tell Reginald all about his birth, and he will remain a pauper--if you help me, he will retain all--if you decline, he will lose everything." "I do not see what chance I have against you," she cried in despair. "No more do I!" "You villain!" she said, furiously. "Why do you come and tempt me to sin like this?" "I'm not tempting you to sin--don't I tell you, it will harm no one. Come, give me your answer--yes or no?" "Yes," she said, faintly, "I agree." "You will say that Reginald is the son of Fanny Blake and the Squire?" "I will--for his sake." "I don't care for whose sake you do it," he retorted, brutally, rising to his feet. "You've agreed to help me, so that's all I care about--now I'm going to get the papers." "Where are they?" "That's my business," said Beaumont, coolly sauntering to the door. "I'll fix up the necessary proofs, all you've got to do is, to tell a consistent story--I'll instruct you. By the way, you are quite sure Una Challoner, and that fool of an aunt, are out of the way?" "Quite sure--they are in the oak parlour." "No chance of their coming out?" "None." "Very good--then I can get what I want, without suspicion. Have you got the keys of the Squire's desk?" "No, Dr. Nestley took them yesterday from the room, to give them to Miss Una." "Confound it--has he done so?" "I do not know."