“I see,” said the lawyer, balancing a paper-cutter upon his forefinger. But though his features preserved their polite imperturbability, the fact was, he did not believe one word of this statement. “Let me see, though,” he went on, musingly; “I know who might be able to give you some information.”
“Who?” asked Truscott, eagerly looking up.
“Miss Dynevard, of Dynevard Chase. She, you are aware, is Miss Strange’s stepsister.”
The other’s countenance fell. He was more disappointed than he cared to say. Eveline Dynevard was the last person he could communicate with on the subject.
“Er—yes; of course,” he said, hurriedly. “I had forgotten. I will write to Miss Dynevard.”
“Can I make the inquiry for you?” asked the lawyer, politely.
“No—no, thanks. I needn’t trouble you further. Much obliged; good morning,” and taking up his hat Truscott made his way out into the street.
The lawyer went to the window and watched him turn the dingy corner. “John,” he said to his brother and junior partner, who at that moment entered. “You saw that chap who just went out from here. He’s got an inkling of the contents of old Dynevard’s will. I read him like a book as he sat there, clumsily trying to fish out the whereabouts of Miss Strange.”
“H’m! Has he?” grunted John Grantham, who was the greatest possible contrast to his more astute brother, in that he was short, red-faced, and irritable. “He didn’t succeed, I hope?”
“No. I couldn’t have told him if I had wanted to, for the simple reason that I don’t know. But he says he’s her cousin.”