"I'd buy gin," he said. "Bols an' bols an' bols of gin. Barrelsh of gin. I'd have a bath full of gin, an' shwim my-shelf to shleep every Sarrerdy night."
"I'll give you five hundred a year for life for that will," said the Saint. "Signed, settled, and sealed — in writing — this minute. You needn't worry too much about your professional etiquette. I'll give you my word not to destroy or conceal the will; but I would like to borrow it for a day or two."
Less than an hour later he was chivalrously ferrying the limp body of Mr. Penwick home to the ex-solicitor's lodgings, for it is a regrettable fact that Mr. Penwick collapsed rather rapidly under the zeal with which he insisted on celebrating the sale of his potential reinstatement. Simon went on to his own apartment, and told Patricia of his purchase.
"But aren't you running a tremendous risk?" she said anxiously. "Penwick won't be able to keep it secret — and what use is it to you, anyway?"
"I'm afraid nothing short of chloroform would stop Penwick talking," Simon admitted. "But it'll take a little time for his story to get dangerous, and I'll have had all I want out of the will before then. And the capital which is going to pay his five hundred a year will only be half of it."
Patricia lighted a cigarette.
"Do I help?"
"You are a discontented secretary with worldly ambitions and no moral sense," he said. "The part should be easy for you."
Mr. Willie Kinsall had never heard of Patricia Holm.
"What's she like?" he asked the typist who brought in her name.