“By the way, I was almost forgetting:  the inheritance—­you know, Mornington’s hundred millions—­well, that’s mine.  Why, of course!  You can’t doubt that I took all my precautions!  Florence will explain everything presently....  It’s very well thought out—­you’ll see—­you’ll see—­”

He could not get out another word.  The last syllables sounded more like hiccoughs.  The sweat poured from his hair and his forehead, and he sank to the ground, moaning like a dying man tortured by the last throes of death.

He remained like that for some minutes, with his head in his hands, shivering all over his body.  He appeared to be suffering everywhere, in each anguished muscle, in each sick nerve.  Then, under the influence of a thought that seemed to make him act unconsciously, one of his hands crept spasmodically down his side, and, groping, uttering hoarse cries of pain, he managed to take from his pocket and put to his lips a phial out of which he greedily drank two or three mouthfuls.

He at once revived, as though he had swallowed warmth and strength.  His eyes grew calmer, his mouth shaped itself into a horrible smile.  He turned to Florence and said: 

“Don’t flatter yourself, pretty one; I’m not gone yet, and I’ve plenty of time to attend to you.  And then, after that, there’ll be no more worries, no more of that scheming and fighting that wears one out.  A nice, quiet, uneventful life for me! ...  With a hundred millions one can afford to take life easy, eh, little girl? ...  Come on, I’m feeling much better!”

CHAPTER TWENTY

FLORENCE’S SECRET

It was time for the second act of the tragedy.  Don Luis Perenna’s death was to be followed by that of Florence.  Like some monstrous butcher, the cripple passed from one to the other with no more compassion than if he were dealing with the oxen in a slaughter-house.

Still weak in his limbs, he dragged himself to where the girl lay, took a cigarette from a gun-metal case, and, with a final touch of cruelty, said: 

“When this cigarette is quite burnt out, Florence, it will be your turn.  Keep your eyes on it.  It represents the last minutes of your life reduced to ashes.  Keep your eyes on it, Florence, and think.

“I want you to understand this:  all the owners of the estate, and old Langernault in particular, have always considered that the heap of rocks and stones overhanging your head was bound to fall to pieces sooner or later.  And I myself, for years, with untiring patience, believing in a favourable opportunity, have amused myself by making it crumble away still more, by undermining it with the rain water, in short, by working at it in such a way that, upon my word, I can’t make out how the thing keeps standing at all.  Or, rather, I do understand.

“The few strokes with the pickaxe which I gave it just now were merely intended for a warning.  But I have only to give one more stroke in the right place, and knock out a little brick wedged in between two lumps of stone, for the whole thing to tumble to the ground like a house of cards.