“It isn’t exciting at all,” he said aggrievedly. “It’s very tragic. Here have I been waiting and waiting for old James Tantamount to pass to a well-earned rest, and now he’s done it—and fairly cramped my style.”
“But who is it, Virgil?”
“You wouldn’t know her,” protested Pardoner.
“Tell me her name.”
“Townshend. June Townshend. One of the Lincolnshire lot.”
Sarah knitted her brows.
“June Townshend,” she said musingly. “I never heard of her. Does she——”
“I told you you hadn’t,” said Pardoner. “But that’s neither here nor there. There’s my skeleton or cross, or whatever you like to dress it in. You see, my lady, we’re both in the same sad boat. You want George, and I want June. And we can’t have ’em.”
Sarah stretched out her hand.
“Let me look at the Will,” she said.