“You are mistaken in both assertions, Mrs. Montague,” Ray responded, with cold dignity.  “In the first place, the paper does not belong to you; it rightly belongs to your husband’s daughter.  In the second place, it came into my possession in a perfectly legitimate manner.  On the day of your high-tea I came here a little late, if you remember.  Your private parlor above was used as the gentleman’s dressing-room, and I found that document lying underneath the draperies of the bay-window.  I accidentally stepped upon it.  It crackled beneath my feet, and it was but natural that I should wish to ascertain what was there.  When I discovered the nature of the paper I felt perfectly justified in taking charge of it, in the interests of my promised wife, and so gave it into Mr. Corbin’s hands.”

Mrs. Montague sat like one half stunned during this explanation, for she readily comprehended how this terrible calamity had happened to overtake her.  She realized that the certificate must have slipped from her lap to the floor while she was examining the other contents of that secret compartment; and, when she had been so startled by Mona’s rap and upset the table, it had been pushed underneath the draperies, while, during her hurry in replacing the various articles, she had not noticed that it was missing.

“Yes, I understand,” she said, in a low, constrained, despairing tone.  “You have balked me at last, but,” throwing back her head like some animal suddenly brought to bay, “what are you going to do about it?”

“Only what is right and just, Mrs. Montague,” courteously responded Mr. Corbin.

“Right and just!” she repeated, with bitter emphasis.  “That means, I suppose, that you are going to compel me to give up my fortune.”

“The law decrees that children shall have their father’s property, excepting, of course, a certain portion,” said the lawyer.

“A paltry one-third,” retorted Mrs. Montague, angrily.

“Yes, unless the heirs choose to allow something more to the widow.  Perhaps my client—­”

Mrs. Montague sprang to her feet, her face flaming with sudden passion.

“Do you suppose I would ever humiliate myself enough to accept any favor from Mona Forester’s child?” she cried, as she paced the floor excitedly back and forth, “Never!  I will never be triumphed over.  I will defy you all!  Oh, to be beaten thus!—­it is more than I can bear.”

Mrs. Montague’s fury was something startling in its bitterness and intensity, and the three gentlemen, witnessing it, could not help feeling something of pity for the proud woman in her humiliation, even though they were disgusted with her vindictiveness and selfishness.

“Defiance will avail you nothing, Mrs. Montague; an amicable spirit would conduce far more to your advantage,” Mr. Corbin remarked.  “And now I advise you,” he added, “to quietly relinquish all right and title to this fortune excepting, of course, your third, and trust to your husband’s daughter and her counsel to make you such allowance as they may consider right.  If you refuse to do this we shall be obliged to resort to the courts to settle the question of inheritance.”