We came at once, Dora before us.

"Come in," said Harold, admitting us at the glass door. "It is all a
mistake. I am not the man. It is Eustace. Eu, I wish you joy, old
chap--"

Mr. Prosser was at the table with a great will lying spread out on
it. "I am afraid Mr. Alison is right, Miss Alison," he said. "The
property is bequeathed to the eldest of the late Mr. Alison's
grandsons born here, not specifying by which father. If I had copied
the terms of the will I might have prevented disappointment, but I
had no conception of what he tells me."

"But Ambrose was Harold's father," I exclaimed in bewilderment, "and
he was the eldest."

"The seniority was not considered as certain," said Mr. Prosser, "and
therefore the late Mr. Alison left the property to the eldest child
born at home. 'Let us at least have an English-born heir,' I
remember he said to me."

"And that is just what I am not," said Harold.

"I cannot understand! I have heard Miss Woolmer talk of poor
Ambrose's beautiful child, several months older than Eustace's, and
his name was Harold."

"Yes," said Harold, "but that one died on the voyage out, an hour or
two before I was born. He was Harold Stanislas. I have no second