“Nothing wrong, Canterby?” said the other, as the two men shook hands cordially.
“Don’t know about wrong, Dick. But I’m in a puzzle over something, and you always had a sound judgment. Sit down.”
The Very Reverend Richard Lenthall was one of the canons attached to the Roman Catholic Cathedral in the adjacent town of Passmore; and the difference in their creeds notwithstanding, for Sir Luke did not profess the ancient faith, the two men had been fast friends for nearly a lifetime. In aspect and manner they were totally dissimilar. The priest was a broad, thick-set man of medium height, with a strong but jovial face, square-jawed and surmounted by a fine forehead, and illuminated by a pair of fine dark eyes, wonderfully searching, as they gazed forth from beneath bushy brows. He had a brisk, hearty, genial manner, differing entirely from the somewhat reposeful and dignified one of his friend. But mentally, both had many points in common—notably a keen sense of humour—and a delight in studying the contrasts and ironies of the satirical side of life.
“What’s the puzzle?” he now said, dropping into a chair.
“I’ll tell you. Oh, by the way, let me ring for a glass of wine for you after your walk.”
“No, thanks. I’ll wait till lunch. I’m going to stop and lunch with you, but I’ll have to get away directly after.”
“As to that you know your own business best. Look here, old friend, advise me. Do you know what this confounded document is?” holding it up.
“Um. It might be a lease, or a deed of partnership—or of sale.”
“No. Try again.”
“Or your will.”