that he must speak to him, see his face, discover perhaps some telltale predatory gleam in his eye. He called: "Is that you, Renny?"
Renny opened the door. "Yes, Uncle Nick. Want something?"
"Light my lamp, will you? I can't sleep."
"H'm. What's the matter with this family?" He struck a match and came toward the lamp. "Wake's been having a heart attack."
Nicholas growled sympathetically. "That's too bad. Too bad. Poor little fellow. Is he better of it? Can I do anything?"
"I shouldn't have left him if he hadn't been better. I think he overdid it helping Gran to get up. He gets excited about things, too. . . . Is that high enough?" The clear flame of the lamp illumined the strongly marked features that looked as though they had been fashioned for the facing of high winds, carved more deeply the line of anxiety between the brows, accented the close-lying pointed ears.
Nothing underhand, self-seeking, in that face, Nicholas thought, but I mustn't let the old lady get too doting about him. He's the kind of man that women. . . . "One thing that was keeping me awake," he observed, peering shrewdly into the illumined face, "was the thoughts of Mama. Her spirit, isn't it amazing?"
"A corker."
"It seems impossible to think that some day . . . Renny, has she ever said anything to you about how she's left her money?"
"Not a word. I've always taken it for granted that you'll get it. You're the eldest son and her favourite—a Court and all that—you ought to have it."
Nicholas's voice was sweet with reassurance. "Yes, I suppose that's the natural thing. Just set the lamp on the table here where I can reach it. Thanks, Renny. Good-night, and tell Wake that he's to go straight to sleep and dream of a glorious trip to England Uncle Nick's going to take him."
"Righto. Good-night."
