“I have,” replied Ralph Mainwaring, triumphantly, while his cold, calculating gray eyes glittered like burnished steel.  “If any man thinks I have been asleep for the past twenty-one years, he is deucedly mistaken.  Mr. Whitney, since the day of that boy’s birth,” pointing to his son, “I have had but one fixed resolve, which has been paramount to everything else, to which everything else has had to subserve, — the Mainwaring estate with its millions should one day be his.  Not a day has passed in which this was not uppermost in my mind; not a day in which I have not scanned the horizon in every direction to detect the least shadow likely to intervene between me and the attainment of the dearest object of my life.  When the news of Harold Mainwaring’s death reached England, in order to guard against the possibility of a claim ever being asserted in that direction, I set myself at once to the task of finding for a certainty whether or not he had left any issue.  I never rested day or night until, after infinite labor and pains, I had secured the certificate of the attendant physician to the effect that the only child of Harold Mainwaring died within an hour from its birth.”

“Have you that certificate now?” inquired the attorney.

“Not here; it is among my private papers at home.”

“Cable for it at once; with the death of Harold Mainwaring’s child fully established, the will would cut no figure, one way or another.”

“That will,” said Ralph Mainwaring, fiercely, turning upon Mr. Whitney with an expression which the latter had never seen, “let me tell you, will cut no figure one way or another in any event.  That will, remember, is a forgery; and, if necessary, I will prove it so, if it takes my last shilling and the last drop of my heart’s blood to do it; do you understand?”

The attorney understood, and was more than ever convinced in his ow mind that the old will filed that day was genuine.

Meanwhile, in another part of the city, Mrs. LaGrange sat alone in her apartments, awaiting the coming of Richard Hobson.  It was considerably past the hour which he had set and daylight was slowly merging into dusk, yet enough light still remained to show the changes which the last few weeks had wrought in her face.  Her features looked pinched and drawn, and a strange pallor had replaced the rich coloring of the olive skin, while her dark eyes, cold and brilliant as ever, had the look of some wild creature suddenly brought to bay.  She shuddered now, as, from her window, she saw the cringing form of Hobson approaching the building.

“To think,” she exclaimed to herself, passionately, “that that creature is the only one to whom I can go for counsel or advice!  I loathe the very sight of him; fool that I was ever to place myself within his power!  I thought I could use him as a tool like the rest; but it is like playing with edged tools; yet I dare not let him go.”