“How do you do, Miss Marsh?  I’m rejoiced to see you looking so fit.”

“Oh, I’m very well, thank you.  How do you do?”

“Will you have a cup of tea?” asked Wickham in response to what he thought was a signal from his wife.

But Mrs. Wickham had reached the point where further waiting was simply impossible.

“Jim,” she remonstrated, “Miss Marsh would much prefer to have tea quietly after we’re gone.”

Nora understood and for the moment found it in her heart to be sorry for the woman, much as she disliked her.

“I won’t have any tea, thank you,” she said simply.

“Mr. Wynne has brought the will with him,” explained Mrs. Wickham.  Her tone was almost appealing as if she begged Nora if she knew of its contents to say so without further delay.

“Oh, yes?”

Nothing should induce her to show such agitation as this woman did.  She managed to assume an air of polite interest and find a chair for herself quite calmly.  And yet she was conscious that her heart was beating wildly beneath her bodice.  But she would not betray herself, she would not.  And yet her stake was as great as any.  Her whole future hung on the contents of that paper Mr. Wynne was caressing with his long fingers.

“Miss Marsh,” questioned Mr. Wynne as soon as she was seated, “so far as you know there is no other will?”

“How do you mean?”

“Miss Wickham didn’t make a later one—­without my assistance, I mean?  You know of nothing in the house, for instance?”

“Oh, no,” said Nora positively.  “Miss Wickham always said you had her will.  She was extremely methodical.”

“I feel I ought to ask you,” the solicitor went on with unwonted gentleness, “because Miss Wickham consulted me a couple of years ago about making a new will.  She told me what she wanted to do, but gave me no actual instructions to draw it.  I thought perhaps she might have done it herself.”

“I heard nothing about it.  I am sure that her only will is in your hands.”

“Then I think that we may take it that this——­”

Mrs. Wickham’s set face relaxed.  The light of triumph was in her eyes.  She understood.

“When was that will made?” she asked eagerly.

“Eight or nine years ago.  The exact date was March 4th, 1904.”

The date settled it.  Nora, too, realized that.  She was left penniless.  What a refinement of cruelty to deceive—­but she must not think of that now.  She would have all the rest of her life in which to think of it.  But here before that woman, whose searching glance was even now fastened on her face to see how she was taking the blow, she would give no sign.

“When did you first come to Miss Wickham?” Mrs. Wickham’s voice was almost a caress.

“At the end of nineteen hundred and three.”  There was no trace of emotion in that clear voice.  After a moment Mr. Wynne spoke again.