"But the holder of the other grant is dead too!" said the widow.
"That makes it about equal again. But who is he?"
Mrs. Sepulvida referred to her papers, and then said--
"Devarges," said Mrs. Sepulvida, referring to her notes. "A singular name--a foreigner, I suppose. No, really Mr. Poinsett, you shall not look at the paper until I have copied it--it's written horribly--you can't understand it! I'm really ashamed of my writing, but I was in such a hurry, expecting you every moment! Why, la! Mr. Poinsett, how cold your hands are!"
Arthur Poinsett had risen hurriedly, and reached out almost brusquely for the paper that she held. But the widow had coquettishly resisted him with a mischievous show of force, and had caught and--dropped his hand!
"And you are pale, too. Dear me! I'm afraid you took cold that morning," said Mrs. Sepulvida. "I should never forgive myself if you did. I should cry my eyes out!" and Donna Maria cast a dangerous look from under her slightly swollen lids that looked as if they might threaten a deluge.
"Nothing, nothing, I have ridden far this morning, and rose early," said Arthur, chafing his hands with a slightly embarrassed smile. "But I interrupted you. Pray go on. Has Dr. Devarges any heirs to contest the grant?"
But the widow did not seem inclined to go on. She was positive that Arthur wanted some wine. Would he not let her order some slight repast before they proceeded further in this horrid business? She was tired. She was quite sure that Arthur must be so too.
"It is my business," said Arthur, a little stiffly, but, recovering himself again in a sudden and new alarm of the widow, he smiled and suggested the sooner the business was over, the sooner he would be able to partake of her hospitality.
"There are no heirs that we can find. But there is a--what do you call it?--a something or other--in possession!"
"Yes," continued the widow, with a light laugh; "a 'squatter,' by the name of--of--my writing is so horrid--let me see, oh, yes! 'Gabriel Conroy.'"
Arthur made an involuntary gesture toward the paper with his hand, but the widow mischievously skipped toward the window, and, luckily for the spectacle of his bloodless face, held the paper before her dimpled face and laughing eyes, as she did so.