style="font-size:15px;"> “Looks girlish,” said its recipient, “but I always wear it round my neck. Shouldn’t like to lose that. Now, gentlemen, any more questions to ask?”
“One more, sir,” said the old lawyer. “My dear Gertrude Bellwood, may I ask you to leave us for a few minutes. You may have some orders to give.”
Gertrude started to her feet, and was making for the door, when Saul rose to open it, but his rival was quicker, darting before him, and smiling at the girl as she passed out, more agitated and excited than she had ever felt before.
“Now, gentlemen, what’s the next piece of cross-examination which this culprit is to bear?”
“I have – we have – but one more question to ask, sir,” said the old lawyer. “It is in our instructions, drawn out by my old and esteemed client, a year before his death. If you can answer that to our satisfaction, I for one shall be perfectly satisfied.”
“And I,” said the doctor; then to himself, “as far as your being the right man is concerned.”
“Very good, gentlemen,” was the smiling reply; “let’s see if I can oblige you.”
The words were light, but there was a peculiar intensity in the speaker’s eyes, and a slight twitching about the corners of his lips, which a close observer would have detected.
“Have you not some birth-mark about you?” said Doctor Lawrence.
“No, sir, as far as I am aware – none.”
“No peculiar marks about your person?”
“I have the scar of a bullet-wound in the shoulder – the entrance and exit. I believe it went through my scalp.”
“Scapular,” said the doctor, smiling.
“Yes – the blade-bone.”
“Anything else?”
“An ugly seam or ridge on the skull where I had a chop from an Indian axe; and a knot here in my right arm, where it was broken and mended again.”
“Is that all, sir?”
“No; one other mark – a trifle done some time or another – here on my breast. Like to see it, gentlemen?”
“Ha!” ejaculated the old lawyer. “If you are Mr George Harrington, sir, you have the figure of a heart tattooed upon your breast – a heart transfixed by an arrow.”
“That anything like it, gentlemen?” said the young man, unbuttoning his vest, and throwing open the flannel shirt he wore, to show, plainly marked upon his white skin, the figure described.
“Like it, sir? – yes,” said the old lawyer. “Mr George Harrington, welcome home, sir, and I hope we may be the best of friends.”
“And I add my congratulations, and the same wish, Mr George Harrington,” said the doctor, shaking one hand as his colleague shook the other; “but,” he added to himself, “as to the friendship, I have my doubts.”
“And now it is my turn, Cousin George,” said Saul Harrington, advancing with extended hand. “I apologise for playing the British bulldog to you, but you were a stranger, and you will be the last to blame me for showing a bold front in defence of your patrimony.”
“To be sure, Cousin Saul. How are you, old fellow? Stop and let’s all dine together. No more business to-day, I hope. Let’s have a glass of wine – champagne – and, Cousin Saul, suppose you and I have a good long talk over a cigar.”
“We will,” said Saul, as they stood hand in hand, eye gazing into eye, and, singularly enough, with similar thoughts agitating each breast.
For the successor to the estate left by the original of the picture on the wall said to himself:
“If we were out in some parts of the West, Saul Harrington, any office would find it a bad spec to insure your life.”
And Saul thought:
“If this man had not come back, I was master here – of the house, of the money, and of – ”
He stopped and gazed hard across the room, for at that moment, looking flushed and handsome, Gertrude stood hesitating at the doorway, as if asking if she might come in.
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