"Sufficient?"
"Just about. You get to work."
"I've saved a little," began Peter. "It ought to have been more, but somehow it isn't."
"Perhaps we shall want it," Clodd replied; "perhaps we shan't. You are supplying the brains."
The three for a few moments remained silent.
"I think, Tommy," said Peter, "I think a bottle of the old Madeira--"
"Not to-night," said Clodd; "next time."
"To drink success," urged Peter.
"One man's success generally means some other poor devil's misfortune," answered Clodd.
"Can't be helped, of course, but don't want to think about it to-night. Must be getting back to my dormouse. Good night."
Clodd shook hands and bustled out.
"I thought as much," mused Peter aloud.
"What an odd mixture the man is! Kind--no one could have been kinder to the poor old fellow. Yet all the while-- We are an odd mixture, Tommy," said Peter Hope, "an odd mixture, we men and women." Peter was a philosopher.
The white-whiskered old dormouse soon coughed himself to sleep for ever.
"I shall want you and the missis to come to the funeral, Gladman," said Mr. Clodd, as he swung into the stationer's shop; "and bring Pincer with you. I'm writing to him."
"Don't see what good we can do," demurred Gladman.
"Well, you three are his only relatives; it's only decent you should be present," urged Clodd. "Besides, there's the will to be read. You may care to hear it."
The dry old law stationer opened wide his watery eyes.
"His will! Why, what had he got to leave? There was nothing but the annuity."
"You turn up at the funeral," Clodd told him, "and you'll learn all about it. Bonner's clerk will be there and will bring it with him. Everything is going to be done comme il faut, as the French say."
"I ought to have known of this," began Mr. Gladman.
"Glad to find you taking so much interest in the old chap," said Clodd. "Pity he's dead and can't thank you."
"I warn you," shouted old Gladman, whose voice was rising to a scream, "he was a helpless imbecile, incapable of acting for himself! If any undue influence--"
"See you on Friday," broke in Clodd, who was busy.
Friday's ceremony was not a sociable affair. Mrs. Gladman spoke occasionally in a shrill whisper to Mr. Gladman, who replied with grunts. Both employed the remainder of their time in scowling at Clodd. Mr. Pincer, a stout, heavy gentleman connected with the House of Commons, maintained a ministerial reserve. The undertaker's foreman expressed himself as thankful when it was over. He criticised it as the humpiest funeral he had ever known; for a time he had serious thoughts of changing his profession.
The solicitor's clerk was waiting for the party on its return from Kensal Green. Clodd again offered hospitality. Mr. Pincer this time allowed himself a glass of weak whisky-and-water, and sipped it with an air of doing so without prejudice. The clerk had one a little stronger, Mrs. Gladman, dispensing with consultation, declined shrilly for self and partner. Clodd, explaining that he always followed legal precedent, mixed himself one also and drank "To our next happy meeting." Then the clerk read.
It was a short and simple will, dated the previous August. It appeared that the old gentleman, unknown to his relatives, had died possessed of shares in a silver mine, once despaired of, now prospering. Taking them at present value, they would produce a sum well over two thousand pounds. The old gentleman had bequeathed five hundred pounds to his brother-in-law, Mr. Gladman; five hundred pounds to his only other living relative, his first cousin, Mr. Pincer; the residue to his friend, William Clodd, as a return for the many kindnesses that gentleman had shown him.
Mr. Gladman rose, more amused than angry.
"And you think you are going to pocket that one thousand to twelve hundred pounds. You really do?" he asked Mr. Clodd, who, with legs stretched out before him, sat with his hands deep in his trousers pockets.
"That's the idea," admitted Mr. Clodd.
Mr. Gladman laughed, but without much lightening the atmosphere. "Upon my word, Clodd, you amuse me--you quite amuse me," repeated Mr. Gladman.
"You always had a sense of humour," commented Mr. Clodd.
"You villain! You double-dyed villain!" screamed Mr. Gladman, suddenly changing his tone. "You think the law is going to allow you to swindle honest men! You think we are going to sit still for you to rob us! That will--" Mr. Gladman pointed a lank forefinger dramatically towards the table.
"You mean to dispute it?" inquired Mr. Clodd.
For a moment Mr. Gladman stood aghast at the other's coolness, but soon found his voice again.
"Dispute it!" he shrieked. "Do you dispute that you influenced him?--dictated it to him word for word, made the poor old helpless idiot sign it, he utterly incapable of even understanding--"
"Don't chatter so much," interrupted Mr. Clodd. "It's not a pretty voice, yours. What I asked you was, do you intend to dispute it?"
"If you will kindly excuse us," struck in Mrs. Gladman, addressing Mr. Clodd with an air of much politeness, "we shall just have time, if we go now, to catch our solicitor before he leaves his office."
Mr. Gladman took up his hat from underneath his chair.
"One moment," suggested Mr. Clodd. "I did influence him to make that will. If you don't like it, there's an end of it."
"Of course," commenced Mr. Gladman in a mollified tone.
"Sit down," suggested Mr. Clodd. "Let's try another one." Mr. Clodd turned to the clerk. "The previous one, Mr. Wright, if you please; the one dated June the 10th."
An equally short and simple document, it bequeathed three hundred pounds to Mr. William Clodd in acknowledgment of kindnesses received, the residue to the Royal Zoological Society of London, the deceased having been always interested in and fond of animals. The relatives, "Who have never shown me the slightest affection or given themselves the slightest trouble concerning me, and who have already received considerable sums out of my income," being by name excluded.
"I may mention," observed Mr. Clodd, no one else appearing inclined to break the silence, "that in suggesting the Royal Zoological Society to my poor old friend as a fitting object for his benevolence, I had in mind a very similar case that occurred five years ago. A bequest to them was disputed on the grounds that the testator was of unsound mind. They had to take their case to the House of Lords before they finally won it."
"Anyhow," remarked Mr. Gladman, licking his lips, which were dry, "you won't get anything, Mr. Clodd--no, not even your three-hundred pounds, clever as you think yourself. My brother-in-law's money will go to the lawyers."
Then Mr. Pincer rose and spoke slowly and clearly. "If there must be a lunatic connected with our family, which I don't see why there should be, it seems to me to be you, Nathaniel Gladman."
Mr. Gladman stared back with open mouth. Mr. Pincer went on impressively.
"As for my poor old cousin Joe, he had his eccentricities, but that was all. I for one am prepared to swear that he was of sound mind in August last and quite capable of making his own will. It seems to me that the other thing, dated in June, is just waste paper."
Mr. Pincer having delivered himself, sat down again. Mr. Gladman showed signs of returning language.
"Oh! what's the use of quarrelling?" chirped in cheery Mrs. Gladman. "It's five hundred pounds we never expected. Live and let live is what I always say."
"It's the damned artfulness of the thing," said Mr. Gladman, still very white about the gills.
"Oh, you have a little something to thaw your face," suggested his wife.
Mr. and Mrs. Gladman, on the strength of the five hundred pounds, went home in a cab. Mr. Pincer stayed behind and made a night of it with Mr. Clodd and Bonner's clerk, at Clodd's expense.