beheld it.

"Has he, indeed?"

If Mrs. Wittleworth had looked at the banker instead of the floor, she
might have seen that his face flushed slightly; that his lip quivered,
and his chest heaved; but, as she did not look at him, the banker had
time to suppress these tell-tale emotions.

"He thinks so; and he seems to be determined that something shall be
done about it," added the poor woman, still gazing intently at the
floor.

"And you encourage such ridiculous notions--do you, Ellen?" said Mr.
Checkynshaw, severely.

"I don't know that I encourage them. I can't help his thoughts."

"Probably you don't wish to help them. Well, you can do as you please
about it. If you choose to get him and yourself into difficulty, I
suppose nothing I can say will have any influence with you."

"I don't want to get into trouble, or to spend any money in going to
law."

"I should judge, from the appearance of your house, that you hadn't
much to spend in that way," sneered the banker.

"I have not, indeed. I said all I could to dissuade Fitz from doing
anything about the matter; but he is bent upon it. He has been to see
Mr. Choate about it."

"To see Mr. Choate!" exclaimed the banker, springing out of his chair;
and now his face was deadly pale.

But in an instant Mr. Checkynshaw was conscious that he was revealing
the weakness of his position, and he sat down in his chair again, with
a placid smile upon his face.

"Am I to understand that Fitz and you intend to fight me in the law
upon this matter?" demanded he, with a sardonic grin on his face,
indicating both fear and malice.

"Fitz says there will be no fighting about it. We are to bring a suit
to recover the property, according to the terms of my father's will,
with the income for ten years."

"Fitz says so--does he?"

"He thinks Marguerite died when your present wife had the cholera. He
says all you have to do is to produce the child. If you do, that will
be the end of it; if not, the property certainly belongs to us."

"What makes Fitz think that Marguerite is not living?" asked Mr.
Checkynshaw, more mildly than he had yet spoken.

"Well, he has his reasons," replied she, not quite certain that she
might not say something which would compromise her son.

"What are his reasons?"

"I don't know that it is necessary to mention them. I think myself it
is very strange that you haven't brought her home. She must be fifteen
years old by this time."

"That is h