Let your father—if he chooses, leave all his wealth to his adopted son. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. At the bottom of the trunk was a large manila envelope, unmarked. Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts.
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