Old Mrs. Groat sat by the window in a wheeled chair, a huddled, unlovely figure, her dark gloomy eyes surveyed without interest the stately square with its green leafy centrepiece. The change of seasons had for her no other significance than a change of clothing. The wild heart which once leapt to the call of spring, beat feebly in a body in which passion had burnt itself to bitter ashes. And yet the gnarled hands, crossing and re-crossing each other on her lap, had once touched and blessed as they had touched and blasted.
Once or twice her mind went to this new girl, Eunice Weldon. There was no ray of pity in her thought. If Digby wanted the girl, he would take her, and her fate interested old Jane Groat no more than the fate of the fly that buzzed upon the window, and whom a flick of her handkerchief presently swept from existence. There was more reason why the girl should go if … she frowned. The scar on the wrist was much bigger than a sixpence. It was probably a coincidence.
She hoped that Digby would concentrate on his new quest and leave her alone. She was mortally afraid of him, fearing in her own heart the length to which he would go to have his will. She knew that her life would be snuffed out, like the flame of a candle, if it were expedient for Digby to remove her. When she had recovered consciousness and found herself in charge of a nurse, her first thought had been of wonder that Digby had allowed her to revive. He knew nothing of the will, she thought, and a twisted smile broke upon the lined face. There was a surprise in store for him. She would not be there to see it, that was the pity. But she could gloat in anticipation over his chagrin and his impotent rage.
The handle of the door turned and there followed a whispered conversation. Presently the door closed again.
“How are you this morning, mother?” said the pleasant voice of Digby, and she blinked round at him in a flutter of agitation.
“Very well, my boy, very well,” she said tremulously. “Won’t you sit down?” She glanced nervously about for the nurse, but the woman had gone. “Will you tell the nurse I want her, my boy?” she began.
“The nurse can wait,” said her dutiful son coolly. “There are one or two things I want to talk to you about before she returns. But principally I want to know why you executed a will in favour of Estremeda and left me with a beggarly twenty thousand pounds to face the world?”
She nearly collapsed with the shock.
“A will, my boy?” She whined the words. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“The will which you made and put into that secret drawer of your cabinet,” he said patiently, “and don’t tell me that I’m dreaming, or that you did it for a joke, or that it was an act of mental aberration on your part. Tell me the truth!”
“It was a will I made years ago, my dear,” she quavered. “When I thought twenty thousand pounds was all the money I possessed.”
“You’re a liar,” said Digby without heat. “And a stupid old liar. You made that will to spite me, you old devil!”
She was staring at him in horror.
Digby was most dangerous when he talked in that cool, even tone of his.
“I have destroyed the precious document,” said Digby Groat in the same conversational voice, “and when you see Miss Weldon, who witnessed its destruction, I would be glad if you would tell her that the will she saw consumed was one which you made when you were not quite right in your head.”
Mrs. Groat was incapable of speech. Her chin trembled convulsively and her only thought was how she could attract the attention of the nurse.
“Put my chair back against the bed, Digby,” she said faintly. “The light is too strong.”
He hesitated, but did as she asked, then seeing her hand close upon the bell-push which hung by the side of the bed, he laughed.
“You need not be afraid, mother,” he said contemptuously, “I did not intend taking any other action than I have already taken. Remember that your infernal nurse will not be here all the time, and do as I ask you. I will send Miss Weldon up to you in a few minutes on the excuse of taking instructions from you and answering some letters which came for you this morning. Do you understand?”
She nodded, and at that moment the nurse came in.
Summoned to the sickroom, Eunice found her employer looking more feeble than she had appeared before she was stricken down. The old woman’s eyes smouldered their hate, as the girl came into the room. She guessed it was Eunice who had discovered the will and loathed her, but fear was the greater in her, and after the few letters had been formally answered, Mrs. Groat stopped the girl, who was in the act of rising.
“Sit down again, Miss Weldon,” she said. “I wanted to tell you about a will of mine that you found. I’m very glad you discovered it. I had forgotten that I had made it.”
Every word was strained and hateful to utter.
“You see, my dear young woman, I sometimes suffer from a curious lapse of memory, and—and—that will was made when I was suffering from an attack—”
Eunice listened to the halting words and was under the impression that the hesitation was due to the old woman’s weakness.
“I quite understand, Mrs. Groat,” she said sympathetically. “Your son told me.”
“He told you, did he?” said Jane Groat, returning to her contemplation of the window; then, when Eunice was waiting for her dismissal, “Are you a great friend of my son’s?”
Eunice smiled.
“No, not a great friend, Mrs. Groat,” she said.
“You will be,” said the woman, “greater than you
