think on it, he'd said nothing a body could take offense to.
'I am sorry too,' I said. 'I shall be here in the morning.'
Chapter 3
When I fetched myself to the sidewalk, the tall young man from the office was standin' there. He looked me up and down, impudent as you please, and then he said, 'Come along, Miss Sackett, and I'll walk you home.'
'No, thanks. I shall walk by myself. I have much to do.'
He laughed at me, not a very nice laugh. 'How'd you an' ol' White get along? You better watch him. He's got an eye for the girls.'
I walked across the street, and was so irritated that I did not notice whether I was followed or not. It was several blocks before I thought to look, but I saw nobody. It was late afternoon and folks had either gone home or were going.
Turning back, I saw I was in front of the building with the brass nameplates, and there it was again:
'CHANTRY & CHANTRY, LAWYERS.'
Up the steps I went and into a hall where several doors had names on them. Opening the Chantry door, I stepped into an outer office that was all shadowed and still. There were two desks and chairs, and along one side was a leather settee for those who waited. The door to an inner office was open a crack and I could hear the scratching of a pen. Stepping into the door, I peered inside.
A white-haired man was sitting behind a desk, writing. Piled beside him were several lawbooks, and one of them was open.
As I peeked in, he looked up, right into my eyes. He stared at me as if not believing what he saw, and I stared back, embarrassed.
He stood up, and he was very tall. Tall as Regal, maybe, but not so muscular. 'Will you come in, please? My clerk has gone home, I believe.' He came around the desk. 'I am Finian Chantry.'
Taking a further step into the room, I stood, my feet together, very erect, very prim. 'I am Echo Sackett.'
He gestured to a chair, then turned back to his desk, pausing in midstride. 'Sackett, did you say? Sackett?'
'Yes, sir. I am afraid I am presuming, sir, but there was no one in the outer office and I hoped to have a word with you, sir.'
'Sit down, Miss Sackett. Echo, did you say? What a pretty name!'
'I am glad you think so, sir. Many think it strange, but we live in the mountains, sir, and my father loved the echoes.'
'The mountains? Tennessee, no doubt?'
'Why, yes, sir. How did you know? Oh! My accent!'
'On the contrary, Miss Sackett. I once knew someone of your name, a very long time ago, and he was from Tennessee.'
Finian Chantry moved some papers aside, and marking his place in the open book, closed it. 'He was a fine man, a great man in his way. Were it not for him, I might not be here tonight. He was a good friend to me, and an older friend of my brother's.'
'If you could tell me his name, sir?'
'Daubeny Sackett. He fought in the Battle of King's Mountain, among others.'
'He was my grandfather, sir.'
Finian Chantry sat back in his chair. With his shock of white hair and his lean, strong features, he was a strikingly handsome man.
'Then perhaps I can call you Echo?' His face became serious. 'Now, Echo, what can I do for you?'
Seated across from him, I told him my story as simply and directly as possible. How we had seen the notice in the Penny Advocate and how I had written to James White and had come to claim my inheritance.
'This inheritance. Do you know from whom it comes?'
'No, sir. It was to go to the youngest of Kin Sackett's line, so whoever left the money must have known our family for a very long time. Kin Sackett has been dead for two hundred years.'
'Strange,' Chantry agreed, 'but interesting, very interesting. And this James White advertised in the Penny Advocate ?'
'Yes, sir, and anyone who knew of Kin Sackett would know we lived in Tennessee or west of there.'
He got to his feet. 'Miss Sackett, I shall escort you home. It is not well for a young girl to be on the streets of Philadelphia at night, even if she is a Sackett.'
When we went outside, a carriage pulled up before the door and a man stepped down to open the door for us. Riding in a carriage! If only Ma could see me now!
'Tomorrow when you call upon Mr. White, I shall attend you. I scarcely believe there will be trouble.'
James White sat at his desk staring at the accumulated papers, a disgusted expression on his face. He glanced up as the thickset man in the square gray hat entered.
'What is it, Tim? I am busy!'
'You'll be busier if you expect to pull this off. You take my advice an' get to that hillbilly girl an' get her to sign a release.'
'When did I ask your advice?'
'You never did. That ain't to say you couldn't have used it a time or two. That hillbilly girl's no damn fool. She's gone to another lawyer.'
'What? Who?'
'She went right from here to Chantry's office. Walked right in.'
'That's impossible!'
'You believe that an' you're liable to find yourself in jail. Old Chantry's nobody to fool with. You know it an' I know it.'
White brushed his mustache with a forefinger, throwing a quick, angry look at Tim Oats. Inwardly he was cursing. It had all looked so simple! Everybody on the O'Hara side was dead, the money was in his hands, and Brunn's widow trusted him implicitly. He had made an attempt to find the heirs that would pass muster with her, and he could do what he wished with the money until he found the heirs, which he had hoped never to do. Who would dream a copy of that little sheet would ever find its way into the backwoods of Tennessee?
'Chantry doesn't handle such cases,' White said impatiently. 'His practice is in admiralty law or international trade. Anyway, how could a hillbilly girl even get his attention?'
'All I know is that she left here and went right to his office. She opened the door and walked right in.'
'And probably came right out.'
'I figured I'd best get to you. Chantry is tough, an' you know how he feels about the law. To him it's a sacred trust, an' if he finds you playin' fast an' loose, he'll put you behind bars.'
'You don't have to explain Finian Chantry to me. I know all about him.'
James White was irritated and a little frightened. Still, he had done nothing wrong ... yet. He touched his tongue to dry lips. Thank God he had been warned. Grudgingly he glanced at Tim Oats. 'Thanks. You did the right thing, coming right to me.'
Finian Chantry had fought in the Revolution. He had been an important government official at the time of the War of 1812. It was said he had refused a seat on the Supreme Court for reasons of health. He was a man accustomed to power and the use of power.
Tim Oats was right. He should have smoothed things over and gotten the Sackett girl to sign a release. He could have given her a few dollars ... After all, the girl had no idea what was involved.
Of course, that was what he had planned. To take her to a plush restaurant, give her a couple of glasses of wine, then produce some gold money and get her to sign a release as 'paid in full.' Then she turned him down.
Turned him down! Who did she think she was, anyway?
Yet slowly caution began to slip through the cracks in his ego. Chantry, he was sure, would not give her the time of day, but the sooner the Sackett girl was back in her mountains, the better.
When old Adam Brunn died suddenly, his widow had asked White to settle her husband's legal affairs. The old
