"Our conception of moral and spiritual responsibility differs, I fear," he said, "—as widely as our creeds differ. I regret that my friend of many years should appear to be a trifle biassed—m-m-m’yes, a trifle biassed in his opinion——"
"It’s none of my affair, Grismer. We’re different, that’s all. You had, perhaps, a legal right to your unhappy sister’s share of the Grismer inheritance. You exercised it; I should not have done so. It’s a matter of conscience—to put it pleasantly."
"It is a matter of creed," said Grismer grimly. "It was God’s will."
"Let it go at that. Anyway, you needn’t worry over any possible action that might be brought against you or your heirs. There won’t be any. What I meant was that the child’s aunt, Miss Rosalinda Quest, seems determined to leave little Stephanie a great deal more money than is good for anybody. It isn’t necessary. I don’t believe in fortunes. I’m wary of them, afraid of them. They change people—often change their very natures. I’ve seen it too many times—observed the undesirable change in people who were quite all right before they came into fortunes. No; I am able to provide for her amply; I have done so. That ought to be enough."
Grismer’s dry, thin lips remained parted; he scarcely breathed; and his remarkable eyes continued to bore into Cleland with an intensity almost savage.
Finally he said, in a voice so dry that it seemed to crackle:
"This is—amazing. I understood that the family had cast out and utterly disowned the family of Harry Quest—m-m-m’yes, turned him out completely—him and his. So you will pardon my surprise, Cleland.... Is—ah—the Quest fortune—as it were—considerable?"
"Several millions, I believe," replied Cleland carelessly, moving away to rejoin his son and Stephanie, where they stood amid the noisy, laughing knot of school-boys.
Grismer looked after him, and his face, which had become drawn, grew almost ghastly. So this was it! Cleland had fooled him. Cleland, with previous knowledge of what this aunt was going to do for the child, had cunningly selected her for adoption—doubtless designed her, ultimately, for his son. Cleland had known this; had kept the knowledge from him. And that was the reason for all this philanthropy. Presently he summoned his son, Oswald, with a fierce gesture of his hooked forefinger.