"Well, because you were on the way," said Lady Mary, "and I'm booked up all day, and I want you to come and dine at the Soviet Club with me to-night."
"Good God, Mary, why? You know I hate the place. Cooking's beastly, the men don't shave, and the conversation gets my goat. Besides, last time I went there, your friend Goyles plugged me in the shoulder. I thought you'd chucked the Soviet Club."
"It isn't me. It's Hannah Marryat."
"What, the intense young woman with the badly bobbed hair and the brogues?"
"Well, she's never been able to afford a good hairdresser. That's just what I want your help about."
"My dear child, I can't cut her hair for her. Bunter might. He can do most things."
"Silly. No. But she's got—that is, she used to have—an uncle, the very rich, curmudgeony sort, you know, who never gave anyone a penny. Well, he's dead, and they can't find his will."
"Perhaps he didn't make one."
"Oh, yes, he did. He wrote and told her so. But the nasty old thing hid it, and it can't be found."
"Is the will in her favour?"