At this point of the confab, when the frown of perplexity sat equally heavy on the brow of each legatee, the door of Parrott's office opened, and the trio beheld none other than the subject of their thoughts. No protecting angel had been at work warning George of the plot that was being hatched against his person, for his smile was as serene and beautiful as the morning sun that filtered in through the window panes; his manner was as easy and debonnaire as usual.
"Good morning all," he said affably. "Lovely morning, isn't it?"
Nobody answered.
"It's quite a treat," said George, looking about him, "to be alive on a morning like this, and to see all your old friends with smiling faces. Now, if I were asked——"
"What do you want?" asked Parrott, sharply.
"To be sure," said George. "What do I want?" He laughed cheerfully. "What do we all want"—looking around—"but to be comfortable and cheerful? Plenty to eat and drink; money, and the love of our friends. Eh, Busby?"
The cashier gnashed his teeth.
"In this life," began George, sitting on the edge of the table, and stretching forth one hand. "In this life——"
"That's enough," said Parrott. "Remember where you are."
"Infernal cheek!" vociferated Gray, scowling at his lodger.