"Yes, yes," Ritson threw himself back, and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. "I never speak of my clients' affairs to anyone."
"No," nodded Browne, "everyone is aware that you are trustworthy."
"Then you will be surprised that I am about to betray--no, that is not the word,--that I am about to forestall the reading of the will made last week by the late Sir Simon Tedder."
"Is it necessary?"
"To ease my mind, it is."
"What do you mean?"
"Why should Sir Simon make such a will?" said Ritson, almost to himself. "I thought that it was strange at the time, but now, when this nephew has murdered him, and----"
"Herries did not," cried Browne growing red. "Yes, he did," said Ritson determinedly, "and to get the money."
"The money?" Browne leaned forward his hands on the desk, and stared into the agitated face of the solicitor.
"The money. Sir Simon has disinherited his daughter in favour of Angus Herries, who now has fifty thousand a year."