He was thrusting a sheet of paper at her, a sheet of paper that
bore the superscription of Nichols, Nichols, Nichols, and Nichols,
with a London address.
'Uncle Ira--' Nutty choked. 'Twenty pounds! He's left me twenty
pounds, and all the rest to a--to a man named Dawlish!'
In silence Elizabeth took the letter. It was even as he had said.
A few moments before Elizabeth had been regretting the imminent
descent of wealth upon her brother. Now she was inconsistent
enough to boil with rage at the shattering blow which had befallen
him. That she, too, had lost her inheritance hardly occurred to
her. Her thoughts were all for Nutty. It did not need the sight of
him, gasping and gurgling before her, to tell her how overwhelming
was his disappointment.
It was useless to be angry with the deceased Mr Nutcombe. He was
too shadowy a mark. Besides, he was dead. The whole current of her
wrath turned upon the supplanter, this Lord Dawlish. She pictured
him as a crafty adventurer, a wretched fortune-hunter. For some
reason or other she imagined him a sinister person with a black
moustache, a face thin and hawk-like, and unpleasant eyes. That
was the sort of man who would be likely to fasten his talons into
poor Uncle Ira.
She had never hated any one in her life before, but as she stood
there at that moment she felt that she loathed and detested
William Lord Dawlish--unhappy, well-meaning Bill, who only a few
hours back had set foot on American soil in his desire to nose
round and see if something couldn't be arranged.
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