He fumbled in his pockets, and produced two halfpennies and a sixpence. He put them on the table and blinked at them hazily for a moment: and then, as if finally grasping the irrefutable total, he covered his face with his hands and burst into tears.
"All gone," he sobbed. "All gone. Moneysh all gone. Len' me a pound, ole boy, an' I'll pay for drinksh."
"Mr. Penwick," said the Saint slowly, "have you got that will on you?"
" 'Coursh I got will on me. I tole you, ole boy — I wash goin' Lawshiety an' show 'em, so they could reinshtate me. Pleash pay for drinksh."
Simon lifted his own glass and drank unhurriedly.
"Mr. Penwick, will you sell me that will?"
The solicitor raised shocked but twitching eyebrows.
"Shell it, ole boy? Thash imposhble. Profeshnal etiquette. Norrallowed to sell willsh. Len' me ten bob—"
"Mr. Penwick," said the Saint, "what would you do if you had five hundred a year for life?"
The solicitor swallowed noisily, and an ecstatic light gleamed through his tears like sunshine through an April shower.