"My name's Kinsall," said Willie, skipping about like a grasshopper on a hot plate. "And I want that will — the will you're trying to sell to my dirty swindling brother. And if I don't get it, I'm going straight to the police!"
The solicitor put his finger-tips together.
"What proof have you, Mr. — ah — Kinsall," he inquired gently, "of the existence of this will?"
Willie stopped skipping for a moment. And then, with a painful wrench, he flung bluff to the winds. He had no proof, and he knew it.
"All right," he said. "I won't go to the police. I'll buy it What do you want?"
Simon pursed his lips.
"I doubt," he said, "whether the will is any longer for sale. Mr. Walter's cheque is already in my bank, and I am only waiting for it to be cleared before handing the document over to him."
"Nonsense!" yelped Willie, but he used a much coarser word for it. "Walter hasn't got it yet. I'll give you as much as he gave — and you won't have to return his money. He wouldn't dare go into court and say what he gave it to you for."
The Saint shook his head.
"I don't think," he said virtuously, "that I would break my bargain for less than twenty thousand pounds."