"The will," interrupted Ritson, vehemently, "that is exactly what I fear to see her about."
"You fear?"
"Yes, doctor," he caught Browne's button-hole, "some time ago, when we were talking of Sir Simon's wealth, you mentioned that you knew his nephew."
"Yes. Poor Herries, who is accused of the murder."
"Ah!" Ritson wiped his high bald forehead, although he was usually a cold-blooded man, "that's the difficulty. I must speak."
"Speak away," said Browne, more and more surprised.
"In confidence."
"Of course, in confidence," assented the other.
Ritson sat down suddenly, and began to fiddle with his papers, and Browne, straddling his legs with his hands behind him, watched. It was strange that so quiet a lawyer should be so moved. Certainly the death of Sir Simon was very terrible, and naturally Ritson, who had known him for years, was startled by the tragedy. But it seemed to the doctor that there was something more behind the mere fact of the murder,--something having to do with the dead man's will.
"Well?" he said impatiently, while Ritson kept shifting pens and sealing-wax, and paperweights, as though he were playing chess.