At this moment there came a furious knocking at the front door. "Why," Greer continued, "I bet that's him. It can't be nobody else—I bet the doctor's told him, or summat."
They were on the first-floor landing, and Greer peeped from a broken-shuttered window that looked on the street. "Yes," he said, "that's Mr. Flint sure enough. Now, Mr. Paul Cater, business. Do you want to see that will before I let Mr. Flint in?"
"Yes!" exclaimed Cater furiously, catching at his arm. "Quick—where is it?"
"I want twenty pound."
"Twenty pound! You're mad! What for?"
"All right, if I'm mad, I'll go an' let Mr. Flint in."
The knocking was repeated, louder and longer.
"No," cried Cater, getting in his way. "You know you mustn't conceal a will—that's law. Give it up."
"What's the law that says I must give it up to you, 'stead of yer cousin? If there's a will it may say anythin'—in yer favour or out of it. If there ain't, you'll git 'alf. The will might give you more, or it might give you less, or it might give you nothink. Twenty pound for first look at it 'fore Flint comes in, and do what you like with it 'fore he knows anythink about it."
Again the knocking came at the door, this time supplemented by kicks.