She offered Sheila an open letter.  The girl saw that it was in her husband’s handwriting, but she shrank from it as though she were violating the secrets of the grave.

“Oh no,” she said, “I cannot do that.”

“Mrs. Lavender, ma’am, meant you to read it, after she had had her will altered.  She told me so.  It is a very sad thing, ma’am, that she did not live to carry out her intentions; for she has been inquiring, ma’am, these last few days as to how she could leave everything to you, ma’am, which she intended; and now the other will—­”

“Oh, don’t talk about that!” said Sheila.  It seemed to her that the dead body in the other room would be laughing hideously, if only it could, at this fulfillment of all the sardonic prophecies that Mrs. Lavender used to make.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Paterson said in the same formal way, as if she were a machine set to work in a particular direction, “I only mentioned the will to explain why Mrs. Lavender wished you to read this letter.”

“Read the letter, Sheila,” said her father.

The girl took it and carried it to the window.  While she was there, old Mackenzie, who had fewer scruples about such matters, and who had the curiosity natural to a man of the world, said to Mrs. Paterson—­not loud enough for Sheila to overhear—­“I suppose, then, the poor old lady has left her property to her nephew?”

“Oh no, sir,” said Mrs. Paterson, somewhat sadly, for she fancied she was the bearer of bad news.  “She had a will drawn out only a short time ago, and nearly everything is left to Mr. Ingram.”

“To Mr. Ingram?”

“Yes,” said the woman, amazed to see that Mackenzie’s face, so far from evincing displeasure, seemed to be as delighted as it was surprised.

“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Paterson:  “I was one of the witnesses.  But Mrs. Lavender changed her mind, and was very anxious that everything should go to your daughter, if it could be done; and Mr. Appleyard, sir, was to come here to-morrow forenoon.”

“And has Mr. Lavender got no money whatever?” said Sheila’s father, with an air that convinced Mrs. Paterson that he was a revengeful man, and was glad his son-in-law should be so severely punished.

“I don’t know, sir,” she replied, careful not to go beyond her own sphere.

Sheila came back from the window.  She had taken a long time to read and ponder over that letter, though it was not a lengthy one.  This was what Frank Lavender had written to his aunt: 

“MY DEAR AUNT LAVENDER:  I suppose when you read this you will think I am in a bad temper because of what you said to me.  It is not so.  But I am leaving London, and I wish to hand over to you, before I go, the charge of my house, and to ask you to take possession of everything in it that does not belong to Sheila.  These things are yours, as you know, and I have to thank you very much for the loan of them.  I have to thank you for the