Mr. Lane sat down readily enough, and Mr. Tridge proceeded to remove the powder from Mr. Lock’s chin.
“So you ain’t ’eard nothing more about your great-uncle’s money, sir?” inquired Mr. Tridge, in confidential tones that just reached Mr. Lane’s ears.
“I’ve pretty well given up hope now,” said Mr. Lock. “I begin to think with them others, that he must have burned it. If ever he had it, mind you! Perhaps he only talked about it to keep me up to the mark as his great-nephew. Not that there was any need to do that, though,” declared Mr. Lock, rising, as Mr. Tridge removed the towel from his shoulder with a professional flourish. “I was always very fond of him for his own sake.”
“I’m sure you was, sir,” agreed Mr. Tridge, with sympathy. “But I can’t ’elp thinking you’ve been the victim of bad luck.”
“No use crying over spilt milk,” said Mr. Lock, philosophically. “Still, I’d like to have had a souveneer in memory of him, even if it wasn’t money. But by the time I’d got back here, everything had been sold and the funeral was all over, as you know.”
Mr. Tridge nodded, and irrelevantly mentioned the sum of threepence, extending his hand at the same time. A little light which was shining at the back of his eyes abruptly expired when Mr. Lock airily told him to put it down on the account, as usual.
At the departure of Mr. Lock, Mr. Lane took up his position in the chair, and for some while Mr. Tridge wielded the lather brush in silence. Frequently did Mr. Tridge glance in the mirror at his patron, and each time he was pleased to note the continuance of a meditative look on Mr. Lane’s face.
“Who was that young chap you were shaving when I came in?” asked Mr. Lane at last. “I don’t seem to recognize him.”
“Oh, he’s been about some time,” answered Mr. Tridge. “He’s the billiard-marker down at the ‘Royal William.’”