“Our client was so justly incensed by the undutiful conduct of his daughter that he refused to see her, and—er—in fact, disowned her. She and her husband—who, by the way, was a distant connection, and bore the same name, Chetwynde—disappeared. Our client for some time did not permit her name to be mentioned in his presence, but during the illness which resulted in his death he relented.”
“It’s a way fathers have,” said Varley Howard.
“Er—yes,” said Mr. Pinchook, who had never, in the whole course of his professional experience, met any one quite so cool and listless and altogether immovable as this Mr. Varley Howard, the professional gambler. “He completely forgave his daughter, and instructed us to make inquiries respecting her. We learned that the husband was dead, that a child was born, and that—er—Mrs. Chetwynde had left England with it soon after. The child was a girl.”
Varley Howard leaned back in his chair, and smoked on with impassive countenance.
“On hearing that there was a child, our client, Mr. Gordon Chetwynde, executed a will, leaving the whole of his immense and colossal fortune to her.”
“Ye—es,” drawled Varley Howard. “They always do relent when it’s too late.”
Mr. Pinchook made another attempt to straighten his collar, coughed, and went on again.
“Our firm, as executors and trustees under the will, at once proceeded to search for the missing heiress. Availing ourselves of the best professional assistance, we succeeded in tracing Mrs. Chetwynde to Australia.”
Varley Howard crossed his legs, and deliberately knocked the ash off his cigarette.
“Quite recently we discovered that Mrs. Chetwynde, with her child, had arrived at a camp called—er—Dog’s Ear—yes, that is the extraordinary name. In fact, she wrote a letter, dated from that place. I myself at once came out, and—er—learned that she had left the camp one day to walk to another, called Three Star. I identified her by a photograph which I possessed.”