Those two trustees--Charlesworth &
Wyatt--could turn you all clean out of this--tomorrow, in a way of
speaking. Everything's theirs! They can demand an account of every penny
that you've all had out of the estate and the business--from the time
you all took hold. If anything's been saved, put aside, they can demand
that. You're entitled to nothing but the three amounts of ten thousand
each. Of course, thirty thousand is thirty thousand--it means, at five
per cent., fifteen hundred a year--if you could get five per cent.
safely. But--I should say your son and daughter are getting a few
thousand a year each, aren't they, Mrs. Mallathorpe? It would be a nice
come-down! Five hundred a year apiece--at the outside. A small house
instead of Normandale Grange. Genteel poverty--comparatively
speaking--instead of riches. That is--if I hand over the will to
Charlesworth & Wyatt."
Mrs. Mallathorpe slowly turned her eyes on Pratt. And Pratt suddenly
felt a little afraid--there was anger in those eyes; anger of a curious
sort. It might be against fate--against circumstance: it might not--why
should it?--be against him personally, but it was there, and it was
malign and almost evil, and it made him uncomfortable.
"Where is the will!" she asked.
"Safe! In my keeping," answered Pratt.
She looked him all over--surmisingly.
"You'll sell it to me?" she suggested.
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