“Hello,” Bertha said, “come on in,” and to Elsie, “Be sure we get that out tonight, Elsie. It’s air mail, special delivery.”
Elsie Brand nodded, sat down at the typewriter desk, flipped back the pages of her shorthand notebook, and turned the keyboard of her machine into a pneumatic riveter.
Christopher Milbers adjusted himself in the client’s seat, placed his fingertips together, and beamed across at Bertha Cool. “I came in,” he said, “to settle up.”
“You mean you’re all finished?” Bertha asked. “You’ve reached a compromise with them?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Compromise? On what?”
“On the will.”
He said, “I haven’t as yet made up my mind what to do about the will.”
“Well,” Bertha asked him, “why not wait until you get the thing straightened up?”
“But,” Milbers expostulated, “that wouldn’t affect your compensation in any way. I employed you to help me locate the missing ten thousand dollars. We found the will while we were searching, but that is what we might call a side issue.”
“Oh, I see,” Bertha said dryly.