Claude Bainrothe smiled; it was the first time, let me state en passant, that we had found ourselves alone together since his return.  “You scrutinize that will as if you were a legal flaw-finder, Miss Monfort, instead of a very confiding young lady of poetical proclivities.”

“It is very short!” I said, sententiously, comparing at the same time the handwriting with that of Mr. Mainwaring, who had in his letter declared himself the copyist, the original codicil remaining in his hands, together with the will it had annulled, and finding them the same unmistakably.

“Short, but sweet,” he remarked curtly, yet smiling again, and extending his hand for it.  “I suppose one of Earl Pomfret’s children had trodden on the tail of the old maid’s poodle—­she lived with him it seems—­and offended her beyond repair, or something similar had occurred, to make her change her intentions, which were at first all in his favor, and revoke her first bequest.”

“Mr. Mainwaring does not say so,” I remarked, again glancing over his letter.  “He merely observes that it is only important to send a copy of the codicil, since it revokes all previous bequests.  How did you know her first intentions—­have there been other letters?”

“I suppose so,” he replied, coloring slightly, “but what a lawyer you are!  I scarcely know how I got the idea, to be frank with you; it may be incorrect after all, but Evelyn will tell you every thing, of course, when she comes.”

“Let me see the codicil again, Mr. Bainrothe,” and I examined it once more closely, as if by some fascination I could not resist.  I remarked only one peculiarity in the document.  One word was written in a cramped manner, as though space had been wanting—­yet much of the sheet of paper on which it appeared was unoccupied—­this was the word “thirty,” at the beginning of the enumeration of moneys, for thirty thousand pounds (repeated below in figures) was the sum set forth in the codicil as the bequest of the Lady Frances Pomfret to her niece Evelyn Erle!  The five numerals that represented the same idea as the written words occupied half of the last portion of the last line, and seemed to my invidious eyes to make an ostentatious display of the power that may lie in a cipher, or an array thereof.

I gloated over the record, with something perhaps of that spirit which may have lurked in my blood, from the time of Jacob, and which, so far, had not evinced itself, except perhaps on that occasion when my ear thrilled to the music of falling gold.

As I gazed, I mused on the strange fate that took from one sister to enrich the other so providentially, as it might have seemed.

The paper had fallen from my nerveless hand before I knew it, and I was aroused from reverie by Claude’s action in stooping for it, and his voice saying: 

“I will fold up this record, Miriam; it seems to render you gloomy.”

“Thoughtful, certainly,” I said, recovering myself, with that impulse of self-command that belonged to me by nature; “no more—­not envious, Claude, I assure you, however appearances may be against me.”