He had put off making his will as long as possible--got it
done--and then could not bring himself to touch it again! To send for it
back--to finger and fuss with it--seemed to bring death nearer and he did
not mean to die."
He paused, shading his eyes with his hand. The visualising sense,
stimulated by the nerve strain of the preceding weeks, beheld with
ghastly clearness the face of Melrose in death, with the blood-stain on
the lips.
"And so," he resumed, "there was no short way out. By merely writing to
Miss Melrose, to offer her a fortune, it was not possible to void the
will."
He paused. The intensity of his look held her motionless.
"You remember--how I refused--when you asked me--to take any steps toward
voiding it?"
Her lips made a dumb movement of assent.
"But--at last--I took them. In the final interview I had with Melrose, he
threatened me with the cancelling of his will, unless I consented--Tatham
has told you--to sell him my uncle's gems. I refused. And so far as words
could, he there and then stripped me of his property. It is by the mere
accident of his murder at that precise moment that it has come to me. Now
then--what is to be done?"
Her hand slipped further into his. For a few minutes he seemed to be
absorbed in the silent reconstruction of past trains of thought, emerging
with a cry--though it was under his breath:
"If I took his money now--against his will--I should feel his yoke--his
hateful yoke--again, on my neck! I should be his slave still.
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