“But Mike could have made another, couldn’t he?”
“Certainly he could, and how do we know that he did not? Even otherwise, what was Revell to him? What was he, anyway, in comparison to you or to me?”
“Oh, come now! You know perfectly well that Mike hated you and that you hated him.”
Glendenning waved it away.
“I wouldn’t go as far as that. Mike was after you and so was I. There was just the spirit of decent rivalry between us. But that’s neither here nor there. The point is that we’ve got to have the will set aside. We’ve got to contest it. We—”
“For Heaven’s sake! Do stop saying ‘oui’ all the time! Anyone would think you were a Frenchman.”
“I don’t understand,” said Glendenning, who had got the jest and did not like it.
Camille sprang up.
“Nor I. If it’s not French that you’re talking, it’s lunacy. I don’t believe a word of what you told me of Mike or a thing of what you say of Mr. Revell. Not one! What’s more, I won’t listen to another. You can see me down if you like. I’m off for a run.”
Glendenning could only comply. He saw her down; saw her hop on her horse; saw her start and trot away.
Immediately he decided on a run of his own, and presently, in the neighborly subway, he was being whirled down to the offices of his counsel, Tatum.
Mr. Tatum was a large, fierce man who looked like a chucker-out, but whose voice—which was that of a prima donna—contrasted almost tragically with the aggressiveness of his appearance.
“And so,” he purred, when Glendenning had summarized the matter, “you want to fight. That is the proper spirit. But we have no evidence. We have only suppositions. What your cousin may have done or omitted to do on the night of which you tell me is now immaterial. But that his beneficiary unduly influenced him we will have to show. Meanwhile, through my San Francisco correspondents, I can make an inquiry or two. Should these lead to anything, it may be worth while to proceed, if only with a view to a possible compromise, unless in the interim the will should prove voidable per se. As soon as it is entered, I will consider that point. But otherwise—”
Tatum paused, looked at the walls wainscoted with yellow-backed books, looked beyond them at an idea that beckoned, nodded at it, and looked again at Glendenning.
“Have you anything in your cousin’s handwriting?”
“Yes, there’s that letter from him that Revell brought last night to Miss Marcy.”
“Have you anything else?”
“Well, I wrote him once asking him to advance me some money, and he answered very brutally that he would not.”
“Very good. Send both to me. It will be interesting to compare them—to compare them, also, with the signature on the will. That, too, may lead to something. But otherwise we shall need evidence.”
“And we’ll get it,” Glendenning assured him.
And they did. But the evidence they landed was quite different from what they had expected. It belonged to quite another kettle of fish.
V
Camille rode up the river and raced back. The day before, she had done the same. The day before, the run had brought her the animal joy of living. But on this morning, the wind, the light, the breath of spring, the smell of lilacs, the fiery little cob, the eager glitter of the sky—these things flushed her, reddened her lips, brightened her eyes, poured claret into the cream of her skin, powdered her face with dust, wilted her collar, made her hot and dirty, but not happy. The death of Mike oppressed her, and on that oppression had been superimposed Glendenning’s utter obnoxiousness. The manner in which he had spoken of Revell had angered her, and in spite of the run, the memory of it rankled. None the less, as she told herself, it was queer about the will.
At the curb, a groom bobbed at her. She hopped off, patted the cob’s wet nose, looked into his great and empty eyes, fed sugar into his dripping and ready mouth, flew in, flew up, tubbed, changed, and wished that she were a man and could hit out and swear.
But now Margaret, a maid, pale and plain, looked in with an announcement and a query. Luncheon was served, and would she see Mr. Revell?
Would she? Well, yes, since he was there, she supposed so, and she looked in the glass, dabbed her face with cologne, patted her hair, patted her frock, wondered what he wanted, and went on and into the drawing room.
Revell was seated. As she entered, he got up and she thought him even better looking than he had appeared on the previous evening. But at the moment, she got, too, another impression, and she out with it.
“I’ve seen you before. Where?”
Revell, with a movement of the hand, just sketched a gesture.
“In the street, perhaps. In the theater. I used to live here.”
Camille shook her docked hair.
“Yes, I know. I’ve heard Mike speak of you. But could it have been in Europe?”
“Perhaps. But isn’t it rather unimportant?”
“I don’t know. Mike’s father used to say that nothing is unimportant—or was it that everything is? There! I’ve got it. I remember now. In the Louvre! Yes, the portrait of—I’ve forgotten whom. But I remember the picture distinctly—a man dressed for a fancy ball. You’re not dressed that way, but you look
