He was interrupted by the entrance of a page, who handed to him a letter. Logan read it and laughed. ‘I knew it; they are sharp!’ he said, and handed the letter to Merton. It was from a famous, or infamous, money-lender, offering princely accommodation on terms which Mr. Logan would find easy and reasonable.
‘They have nosed the appleringie, you see,’ he said.
‘But I don’t see,’ said Merton.
‘Why the hounds have heard that the old nobleman has been thrice to kirk lately. And as he had not been there for forty years, they have guessed that he has been making his will. Scots law has, or used to have, something in it about going thrice to kirk and market after making a will—disponing they call it—as a proof of bodily and mental soundness. So they have spotted the marquis’s pious motives for kirk-going, and guessed that I am his heir. I say—’ Logan began to laugh wildly.
‘What do you say?’ asked Merton, but Logan went on hooting.
‘I say,’ he repeated, ‘it must never be known that the old lord came to consult us,’ and here he was again convulsed.
‘Of course not,’ said Merton. ‘But where is the joke?’
‘Why, don’t you see—oh, it is too good—he has taken every kind of precaution to establish his sanity when he made his will.’
‘He told me that he had got expert evidence,’ said Merton.
‘And then he comes and consults US!’ said Logan, with a crow of laughter. ‘If any fellow wants to break the will on the score of insanity, and knows, knows he came to us, a jury, when they find he consulted us, will jolly well upset the cart.’ Merton was hurt.