draw?" He bowed again and turned upon his heel, but I called him back.
"Perhaps you can assist us," I remarked as I introduced the callers.
"The honor is entirely mine, Mademoiselle," de Grandin told her as he raised her fingers to his lips. "You and Monsieur your brother——"
"But he's not my brother," said the girl. "We're cousins. That's why we called on Doctor Trowbridge."
De Grandin tweaked the already needle-sharp points of his little, blond mustache as he looked at her. "Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle," he begged; "I have resided in your country but five little years, and perhaps I do not understand the English fluently. It is because you and Monsieur are cousins that you come to see the doctor? Me, I am dull and stupid like a pig; I fear I do not comprehend."
Dennis Tantavul replied: "It's not because of the relationship, Doctor—not entirely, at any rate, but because——"
He turned to me, a look of mingled fear and wonder in his eyes. "You were at my father's bedside when he died; you remember what he said about my marrying Arabella?"
I nodded.
"There was something—some ghastly, hidden threat—concealed in his warning," he continued. "It seemed as though he were jeering at me—daring me to marry her, yet——"
"Was there some provision in his will?" I asked, and:
"Yes, sir, there was," the young man answered. "Here it is."
From his pocket he produced a sheet of folded parchment, opened it and indicated a paragraph:
To my son, Dennis Tantavul, I give, devise and bequeath all my property of every kind and sort, real, personal and mixed, of which I may die seized and possessed, or to which I may be entitled, in the event of his marrying Arabella Tantavul, but, should he not marry the said Arabella Tantavul, then it is my will that he receive only one-half of my estate, the residue thereof to go to the said Arabella Tantavul, who has made her home with me since childhood and occupied the relationship of daughter to me.
"H'm," I replied, "that looks as if he really wanted you to marry your cousin, even though——"
"And see here, sir," Dennis interrupted, "here's an envelope we found in Father's papers."
Sealed with red wax, the packet of heavy, opaque parchment was addressed:
To my children, Dennis and Arabella Tantavul, to be opened by them upon the occasion of the birth of their first child.
De Grandin's small blue eyes were snapping with that flickering light they showed when he was interested. "Monsieur Dennis," he said, turning the thick envelope over and over between his small, white hands, "Doctor Trowbridge has told me something of your father's death-bed scene. There is a mystery about this business. My suggestion is you read this message now——"
"No, sir, I won't do that," the young man interrupted. "My father didn't love me—sometimes I think he hated me—but I never disobeyed a wish that he expressed, and I don't feel at liberty to do so now. It would be like breaking faith with the dead. But"—he smiled a trifle shamefacedly—"Father's lawyer, Mr. Bainbridge, is out of town on business, and it will be his duty to probate the will. In the meantime, I'd feel better if the will and envelope were in other hands than mine. So we came to Doctor Trowbridge to ask him to take charge of them till Mr. Bainbridge comes from Washington, and meanwhile—"
"Yes, Monsieur, meanwhile?" de Grandin prompted as the young man paused.
"You know human nature, Doctor,"
