The dyspeptic niece, important in the consciousness of her legacy, came twittering up to Broughton as he rose to go.
“So kind of you to come, Captain Broughton! My uncle would have appreciated your being here. And you’ll let me know where to send your picture, won’t you? I’m so glad it’s going to you. One likes to think things are going to those who will appreciate them.”
The picture! Broughton nearly laughed in the woman’s face—nearly told her to keep the damned picture. But he thought better of it—it wasn’t the poor silly creature’s fault, after all!
The lawyer hailed him as he stood on the steps, buttoning his overcoat, while he waited for his hansom.
“Can’t I give you a lift anywhere, Captain Broughton? Going to be a foggy night, I fancy.”
Broughton shook his head with a curt “No, thanks—walking!”
The little lawyer, who was a shrewd observer of men and, like most chatterboxes, a kindly soul, and who was, moreover, none too pleased with his own legacy, shook his head and sighed as he watched the square-set figure disappear into the fog and darkness.
“That man’s had a bit of a knock,” he reflected. “Wonder if he’s got anything to live on? Not much, I dare say. Wouldn’t have hurt that stingy old devil to leave him a hundred or two.... Ah well....”
V
Broughton strode away through the foggy suburban streets. He was afraid he’d been a bit offhand with that lawyer chap. Well, he couldn’t help that! He felt he couldn’t stand his gabble—not at present.