And so four o’clock found me again at the house of the late president of the Trust Company.
This time I was shown to a small reception room, where Olive soon appeared.
“It’s this way, Mr. Brice,” she said after a few moments’ conversation. “I don’t like Mr. Pond,—he’s Uncle’s lawyer,—I just can’t bear the man!”
“For any definite reason, Miss Raynor?” I asked.
“N—no,—well, that is—oh, he’s a horrid old thing, and he wants to marry me!”
“Are you quite sure you want to confide these personal matters to me?” I felt I ought to say this, for the girl was nervously excited, and I was by no means sure she would not later regret her outspokenness.
“Yes, I do. I want a lawyer, Mr. Brice, and I will not have Mr. Pond. So I ask you here and now to take my affairs in charge, look after my financial matters, and advise me in many ways when I need your help. You may suppose I have many friends,”—the big brown eyes were pathetically imploring, “but I haven’t. Uncle Amos,—of course, you know he was not my uncle, but I called him that,—would not allow me to make many friends and his own acquaintances are all elderly people and he hadn’t very many of those. My money is in my own right. Mr. Gately was punctilious in his care of my accounts,—and I want it all taken out of the hands of Mr. Pond and transferred to your care. This can be done, of course.”
Olive looked imperious and seemed to think the matter all settled.
“Doubtless it can be arranged, Miss Raynor; I will consider it.”
“Don’t consider,—just say yes! If you don’t I must hunt up another lawyer, and—I’d rather have you.”