“I don’t think that I would do that. You will meet with much unpleasantness.”
“I must learn to endure cold looks and hypocritical smiles.”
“But not unnecessarily. I would advise you to take a room at the Sheldon; live quietly and wait. If you wish to write a suitable explanation to your firm, do so. There can be no harm in that.”
My heart leaped. His advice was good. I should at least be in the same town as Orpha.
“There is just one thing more,” I observed, as we were standing near his office door preparatory to my departure. “Did Edgar say whether he saw the wills themselves or, like myself, only the two envelopes presumably holding them?”
He was shown them open. Mr. Bartholomew took them one after the other from their envelopes and, spreading them out on the desk, pointed out the name of Edgar Quenton, the son of my brother, Frederick, on the one, and Edgar Quenton, the son of my brother, James, on the other, and so stood with his finger pressed on the latter while they had their little scene. When that was over, he folded the two wills up again and put them back in their several envelopes, all without help, Edgar looking on, as I have no doubt, in a white heat of perfectly justifiable indignation. “Can’t you see the picture?”
I could and did, but I had no disposition to dwell on it. A question had risen in my mind to which I must have an answer.
“You speak of Edgar looking on. At what, may I ask? At Uncle’s handling of the wills or in a general way at Uncle himself?”
“He said that he kept his eye on the two wills.”
“Oh! and did he note into which envelope the one went in which he was most interested,—the one favoring himself?”